Brink
by quillandspindle
Summary: Goblins. Coffee. Shenanigans. A human girl and an immortal Fae legend on a mission to find an elixir to raise the dead; once something more, now mere strangers, standing on the brink of love and war. Some non-explicit adult themes and occasional strong language.
1. Prologue

Stand before the looking glass

And see the path behind

Through rocky road and lonely pass

Here to this brink we find.

* * *

Pale yellow light from a low ceiling lamp bathes a wooden table where three coffee mugs sit, steam slowly rising. A woman, her face beautiful but tired, leans back in her chair, hands wrapped around one of the mugs, thumbs sliding over the rim, back and forth.

"How can you be sure?" She asks.

A man removes his hands from his face and lays them, palms down, on the table. He has not touched his coffee.

"She can't," he says to the woman. "I mean, can anyone be sure, really? But there is a chance."

"And you think he'll agree?" She is not so much incredulous as tentative, hopeful.

A second woman, her hair pulled back in an elegant bun, turns sightless eyes to the first. "He still loves her, doesn't he, after all these years?"

The man huffs. "Well, it's been a while . . . Who's to say he hasn't moved on? They might have been a good thing - if they'd had more time - but, you know, the war and . . . losing her and . . . everything. Not that I ever thought it was a great idea. Anyway, it's risky."

He turns to the first woman, and his tone is almost pleading. "You know what I think about magic." Then he kneads his temples with his fingers, muttering between his hands, "I just can't let go of the fact that it's such a gamble. What if it can't be found after all - and then, it'd be -"

"You don't want to get his hopes up. I get it." She finishes his thought. "But not even trying? I mean, it's a risk either way, isn't it? And it's not as if there's anything to lose if Bunny's right." She tilts her head slightly towards the second woman.

Bunny hooks two fingers through the handle of her mug and lets the scent of the coffee guide it carefully, delicately, to her lips. She closes her eyes as she sips, more from muscle memory than focusing her sense of smell; blind eyes savor scents as much open as closed.

"Henry knows what needs to be done, Veronica. He's just being practical for practicality's sake. I may be blind but I can still feel magic when it's there. And even a blind person can see that he still loves her. Henry, of all people, should know what it's like: Everafters and humans, falling in love, and not getting their happy ending."

She adds, as an afterthought, "Sorry, Veronica. _You're_ Henry's happy ending."

Henry grimaces, then returns his hands to his face. "Fine. Say he agrees. Are we planning on telling him _everything_ , then? Because if -"

Veronica waves her hands in agitation. "No! We tell him enough but not everything. Yet. _When_ we have it - the elixir - _then_ we'll tell him everything… if he hasn't figured it out himself by then what it's for… what it can do for her."

"Deception." Bunny blinks. "You two haven't changed much, have you?"

"Look who's talking," Veronica shoots back at her. "And I prefer the term 'information management'."

Bunny smiles, pushing her mug away. "Alright. We're done. Who's going to tell him?"

Veronica looks at Henry. "I think _you_ should," she begins, placing her hand on his arm. "He'll probably take it best coming from you. I mean, between men."

For a while, Henry doesn't move. Then he nods in staccato and rises from the table, taking his mug and Bunny's as he moves towards the sink. When he gets there, he grips the edge of the sink, half-turns and says, "You'd better be sure, Bunny. Getting everyone's hopes up like this. If you're wrong . . . if this is a wild goose chase . . . if . . . if . . ."

Bunny is already pulling on her coat that Veronica has handed her. As she leaves the kitchen and heads down the hallway towards the front door, she pauses.

"Henry Grimm," she speaks firmly. "Maybe you were brought up to believe death is the end. I wasn't. You've got your happy ever after; let them have theirs."


	2. Chapter 1

My favorite part of the day is coming back to the apartment, especially after a session with Marian.

Marian is my therapist. She says she prefers that I call her that, because _Dr. Rutoski_ is "a mouthful that erects unnecessary boundaries which get in the way of real connection." I'd raised my eyebrow at the irony when she'd said that at our first meeting but she's actually a good sort. Easy to talk to (as therapists have to be, I suppose) but she also has the kind of face that makes me feel like I'm talking to a real person, with real emotions. Some of my classmates have therapists that sort of sit there, deadpan, as if it would lead you astray if they so much as had a reaction to what you were saying. Cheryl, for instance, says she often makes her stories more hair-raising than they really are just to see if she can break through her therapist's vapid demeanor. It hasn't worked, apparently, judging from how Cheryl is still completely messed up, and still exaggerating. Marian, thankfully, isn't that way at all.

I'm in therapy as a requirement for one of my courses. Not all Psych. courses are this way but the prof. believes that it's helpful to the psychological experience (whatever that means) to literally be in the client's seat, and everyone in the class has had to put in 30 hours of "personal work". Most of my classmates signed up with the college counselor because the sessions were free, but I'd wanted to go where no one I knew could see me walk into a shrink's office, course requirement or no.

Not that I thought I'd actually needed therapy, I mean.

And so I'd found Marian. She knew I was in grad school and let me pay her on some kind of sliding scale, for which my meager finances (I work part-time at the local bookstore and it's enough to get by) thank her. At first, I'd simply sat there and not known what to say. I'd told myself I was just there to clock in my 30 hours to pass the class. It's not as if I didn't have issues, but the issues I did have I couldn't quite imagine addressing by reclining on a couch and waxing all existential, let alone resolving in 30 hours.

But clients have to divulge something about themselves at some point, so I'd mentally browsed possible Somethings to work through with Marian. I'd been in a war, after all, and watched people die (and probably killed quite a few of them myself), and been betrayed, and lost my grandmother and let's not even begin to talk about the foster homes and truncated childhood. Or the bizarre alternate reality I live in on a daily basis. Or the bizarre alternate people I call my friends.

Like Puck.

But how can I talk about these things? How do I even find a way to explain any of it? If I weren't already crazy before walking in, I'd be a certified nutcase walking out. Even the most indulgent therapist would have a diagnosis du jour to slap on my case file before too long. I'd imagined Marian's normally-fluid features in static shock as I say, "Well, there is this boy . . . he kinda drives me crazy, in all kinds of ways. He's used to being waited on hand and foot and we fought in this war, and he's saved me and taught me to fight, and it all started way back when when I was eleven - he kissed me and I slugged him, and later _I_ kissed _him_ because he ate an . . . anyway, I don't know where we stand now because he's off seeing the world and we're so different and oh, yeah, he can fly."

So I don't. Instead, I talk about college life, whether or not I want to dump my latest (non-bizarre) boyfriend, what I'm excited - or not - about in my future. Superficial issues by comparison, but safe. And whenever we run out of Superficial Issues, she'd say, "Sabrina, tell me about your family," or "What does 'home' look like for you?" Or "What are you like on a good day?" Then she'd lean forward in her chair, hands clasped in her lap, eyes full of concern, reading me. And I'd look at Marian's open face, her warm brown eyes and thick brown hair that remind me so much of Daphne's, and try to read her back, try to guess her limits of what she might consider a reasonable topic.

Those big, vague questions are the hardest. I'd stay quiet for the longest time. I am not, by nature, reticent. But I don't know how to explain that I am likely to outlive all my friends (unless I am assassinated), that my family are the village gatekeepers to more magic than is good for us, that "home" is anywhere I don't have to hide how abnormal I really am. Most days, I pretend they belong in someone else's life, but every now and then, I'd entertain the temptation to broach them. Some days, like today, I'd actually tried.

"I miss Granny," I'd said this evening. "She kinda held the family together when we were falling apart."

It is not far from the truth. Marian had taken and run with it, and we'd spent the next half hour talking about how much stronger knowing Granny had made me. I'd been relieved when our time was up, but also sad because I'd wished I could have also told her how Granny chose to grow old and leave us; about how, because we have the option to live forever, we also forfeit the urgency of making the most of every day.

And it goes on, session after session: she trying to draw me out; me wanting, but unable, to admit the surreal-ness of my world to an objective ear I don't want to burden with the truth. I realize I must still be trying to protect everyone, even Marian, but I can't help it. It's hard to forget that I'm no longer the savior of the world.

I often leave with a headache, completely exhausted. And, in a knotted-inside part of me, I feel alone.

Tonight, I return to my apartment and toss my keys on the bar counter that divides the living area from the small kitchen. I drop my bag on the floor and collapse in the armchair, resting my feet on the coffee table. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, allowing myself a few minutes to mentally assemble an evening meal from whatever I remember is in the fridge. Then I get up, slide open the linen closet, breathing in the scent of clean sheets. I run my fingers over the stack of clothes - T-shirts, pants, boxers in masculine colors - that sits neatly folded next to the facecloths. Smiling, I grab a towel and head to the shower.

Before I get there, my phone rings. I walk back to my bag and dig it out. It's Mom.

"Hi, Mom."

"Sabrina! Had a good day?" Her voice is cheerful. I am happy to hear it.

"Yep," I reply. "What's up?"

"Listen, honey, Dad and I are wondering if you'd like to come home for the summer break. We really want to see you and if there's some way you can take any time off your summer job - are you planning on putting in any summer hours? We just haven't seen you in a while and everyone misses you. And you've been working so hard at school and all."

It all comes out in a torrent, her words. Almost like a sales pitch. Almost as if she were afraid that, if she stopped for a breath, I'd chip in and say no. Not that I would - and she was right about it having been a killer of a semester.

"Sure, Mom. Well, at least for some part of summer, anyway."

"That's great! When can you get home?"

I frown. Mom is not usually pushy like this. Either everyone really, really misses me (I doubt it) or something is going on that she's not saying. But I know better than to pry right now - I'll find out soon enough, and it will probably be just some surprise party that Daphne's planned.

"I'll see what I can work out with the bookstore and I'll need to talk to Marian about our sessions but I should be able to leave after classes end next week."

"Oh, that's right. You have another week to go. Forgot about that. How is the thing with Marian coming along?"

Mom and Dad know about the therapy sessions - that they are part of the course, and that I like Marian. So I give her the brief report: we've been talking about Granny, leaving home and missing family, how I wish I could tell her about what it was like to live through a war, how I'm living in a fairytale from whose pages I can't return to reality, because there is no line to cross. I don't mention Puck. Mom mmhmms and sighs, and I know without her having to say the words, that she knows exactly what I'm talking about.

When we hang up and I start dinner prep for one, my head still throbs. But I don't feel alone anymore.


	3. Chapter 2

I am home.

The door opens to a tight hug. Daphne may have grown up, but she still hugs like a kid.

"Sabrina!" She practically hollers. "I missed you forever!"

"You should've yelled louder, Daphne. I don't think the entire neighborhood heard." Dad's voice comes from inside the house.

She grins at me and pulls me indoors. For the next hour until dinner is ready, I get to hear everything that has happened in the last six months. She is a pot of pure energy, bubbling over - the proverbial emotional wasteland of adolescence has not dimmed her one bit.

"Daph," I interrupt her, laughing, "You told me about Brian on the phone, remember?"

"But that doesn't count! You're here now, and that was last week and I have to tell you what he said yesterday!"

So I let her, because she's right: texts and email and phone conversations and letters don't count. When we're together, we get to rewind and say it all over again, and it's still fresh. I mentally file this image away to tell Marian later: home is where there's always someone who wants to hear my news, no matter how old it is to me.

Dinner is a hilarious affair. In the time it takes Daphne to catch me up on her life, Basil returns from an afternoon at a friend's house ("A girl!" Daphne raises her eyebrows suggestively as she informs me), takes a shower, plugs the toilet, unplugs the toilet, yells about the toilet and slides into his seat at the table just as Dad is done slicing the meatloaf.

"Just like Puck!" Daphne exclaims, as she hands the mashed potatoes to me. "Remember? He used to throw things down the toilet to see how the flush worked. And Granny was so mad at him. I bet it's a boy thing."

"Except Puck never unplugged the toilet. He just invited crazies to live in it." I smile as I remember the small staff of creatures Puck had once hired to improve the security of the house. Which he had taken one step too far when he'd handcuffed us together. Which had led to a very interesting conversation late one night. Which I really didn't want to think about now.

"How is the freakbaby, anyway?" I ask, changing tack. "Have you heard from him? Or Uncle Jake?"

I ignore the sly look she gives me as she says, "Puck never writes to me. Only _you_."

"Well, you're wrong. Haven't heard from him in months. I don't know if he's even still alive." It comes out sounding smug and a little bitter, which I didn't intend, but it's better than admitting how much it bugs me that he'd stopped writing or calling. What was it that Marian had said? Ah, yes: _anger sits on hurt_. Why did I feel like he owed me, anyway? So what if he'd promised, before he left, that he'd . . .

 _No. Not going there, Sabrina. Walk away._

"So, honey," Dad's voice cuts into my internal tug-of-war. "Mom said this was a tough semester?"

I am thankful for the distraction, and for the next fifteen minutes, I give them the school report, interrupted by questions from Basil and Daphne about the college's sports teams and my social life, respectively (both not worth talking about, I tell them). Finally, we've finished dessert and everyone's pitched in to clear the table and load the dishwasher and we adjourn to the living room - all except Basil, who heads upstairs, calling a cheery, 'Night!"

I sink into the armchair and sigh. It's good to be home. Mom and Dad sit on the sofa across from me, Dad's arm draped around Mom's shoulders. Daphne curls up on the loveseat, eyes fixed on her iPhone as her thumbs fly over the screen.

For a moment, we are quiet.

Then my mother gives my father a look.

Because I'm lazily sweeping the room, enjoying the familiar photographs that capture time in happy smiles and gorgeous vacation spots, I almost miss it.

Almost.

Dad takes a breath, then lets it out. Then takes another breath. And clears his throat.

"Sabrina." He finally speaks. "So . . . I know you said you were done with all the adventures and saving the world and all that but, um . . ."

I listen, trying not to imagine what manner of insanity will follow his words.

" . . . there's something important that we need you to do . . . It's like a mission, but not quite so uh. . . formal. And since you'll be here for a while, and you know, on vacation and all, and -"

"How would you like to go to London to look for something for us?" Mom finishes.

"Whoa." I respond reflexively. "Why? Who? What's all this about?"

Mom smiles a little awkwardly. Daphne, I notice, is enthusiastically texting away, clearly feigning disinterest. I am immediately suspicious.

"Well," Mom continues, "short story: we recently found out there's some kind of elixir that's supposed to restore life to the dead. At least, that's the rumor. We think it's something worth having, so we want you to go get it. It's not going to be sitting out there in plain sight, as you can imagine, but we have good clues and leads, and it's just the sort of thing you'd always liked doing. Plus, it's been a while since you've done something fun that isn't, well, school or work, and you'd get to see a bit of the world in the process."

She pauses, watching me, before adding redundantly, "And it'll be fun."

I shake my head in confusion. I have loads of questions, and it sure sounds kooky. My parents, however, have never been frivolous, so there must be something they're not telling me. I will have to dig it out of them.

"So. . . " I drag out the word. "Let me see if I get this. There is this new potion . . . "

"Elixir." Daphne pipes up from behind her technological preoccupation.

"Elixir. Whatever. And it brings people back from the deeaaaaaaad." I wiggle my fingers, earning a sigh from Dad and an I-told-you look flashed towards Mom. "And it's in London, and you're sending me there to single-handedly wrest it from the grasp of some heinous crook, possibly an Everafter, maybe a sorcerer or dragon or whoever. While sipping tea and sightseeing down the Thames."

Mom leans forward but before she can speak, Daphne looks up from her iPhone and starts counting off on her fingers.

"Not totally accurate. One, we don't know that a crook has it. Actually, we aren't sure _who_ has it. That's part of the quest or mission or whatever you want to call it: to find out. Two, it isn't in London. Or, at least, we think it probably isn't. But London is where you'll be following up on the first lead we've got - some Everafter royalty who knows something. And three, you're not going to be alone."

She freezes, eyes wide and mouth open, then presses her lips together quickly, as if she'd said something she wasn't supposed to.

"Mom? Dad?" I turn to where my parents are sitting, now holding hands. "Who's going with me?"

Dad sighs. "Puck. He'll be meeting you in London, on his way back from Amsterdam. Which is where he is with Jake."

"Puck? And who else?"

"Just Puck. And you."

There are so many things wrong with this scenario that I can't even begin to list them. The weirdest thing, though, is that Dad doesn't even look disapproving that Puck and I are going globetrotting and treasure-hunting by ourselves. It must be a trick. Or a prank. And, therefore, it must have been Puck's idea. So I say so. I just can't believe my parents are falling for it.

"No," says Mom. "Not a joke. And _our_ plan, not Puck's. He had no idea when we called him to ask him. He said it was a good decision to have him along to keep you from getting killed. His words, not mine."

Imbecile. He always thinks I'm a deathtrap waiting to happen. Just so he can fly in and save the day. When I see him, I'm going to slug him for that.

Suddenly something occurs to me. "What about Uncle Jake? Why isn't he going with Puck? In fact, didn't you say he was with Puck right now? Isn't that kind of their area of expertise - scouring the world for magical artifacts and stuff? Can't they just take a short detour to London?"

"Jake doesn't know about this," Dad replies. "We didn't tell him."

"Why?" I am baffled.

Mom and Dad look at me meaningfully, willing me to work it out for myself. Or, at least, it's what I think they want me to do, because they aren't answering.

Then it dawns on me: the elixir is for Uncle Jake. For Briar. It's the one thing he wants more than anything in the world. And they don't want him to know about it yet, in case it doesn't work. Or in case it isn't true. So that he wouldn't get his hopes up for nothing. I get it - I still remember how absolutely devastated he felt when Briar died, how absolutely obsessed he was on finding a way to get her back. And how absolutely broken when he finally gave up. I don't think he's quite recovered, even now.

"Ah," I say at last.

We all look at each other, even Daphne. My parents' eyes are wide with hope. Or is it fear? Maybe a bit of both. No one speaks.

My next question would've been if I could opt out, but I no longer need to ask it. I'll do it for Uncle Jake. Plus, Mom is right - it _has_ been a while since I've done anything fun.

And if I'm also a tiny bit happy that Puck is along for the ride - well, then, it might be just what the doctor ordered.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks, everyone, for the reviews! It's nice to know this is not a total mess from the start. Incidentally, the story is finished - all the chapters are written and edited; they just need formatting and proofreading - so hopefully we won't have to wait too long between updates.**

 **~QaS**


	4. Chapter 3

I am walking toward the doors.

Beyond the doors are the people waiting to greet family, friends and strangers, visitors and homecomers alike.

In a few minutes, I will see Puck again.

"He'll meet you in Heathrow," Mom had said as she'd kissed me goodbye before I'd boarded the plane. "Don't do anything dangerous."

Behind us, Daphne had snorted.

"Not more dangerous than usual, I mean." Mom had corrected herself, a small smile on her lips, fading as quickly as it had appeared.

For the next few hours, I'd drifted in and out of restless sleep as my paperback sat untouched on my tray table, next to my Coke pooling condensate in a moat around its base. My thoughts had been all over the place in my semi-conscious stupor: _elixir. Magic. Uncle Jake. Briar. Puck_.

It'd been years since I was a part of the world of magical artifacts and immortals. When the war was over and the aftershock of its bloody climax had dulled to a hollow in my gut, I'd been determined that the next few years be _mine_. So even while Mom and Dad had kept us in touch with our new Everafter friends and we'd continued journaling those experiences, I'd made sure that everything else was _normal_ : I'd finished school, found part-time jobs, started college, dated regular guys.

Now here I was, back where I'd started, skating the line between fantasy and reality. It'd felt weird, but not exactly _bad_.

And I'd been surprised by that.

The doors slide open and I exit into a mass of people. It is early evening - prime time for arrival, and thankfully not some unearthly post-midnight hour when I'd be like the walking dead, all disheveled and disoriented. Not that I cared what I looked like.I mean, it's not as if I'm meeting the Queen of England - just Puck.

Where _is_ the boy, anyway?

I scan the faces, annoyed, curious and - if I'm honest - eager, looking for the the devil-may-care pose against a pillar, the golden head, the smirk.

Then I see it: one of those cardboard signs held by anonymous chauffeurs. This particular anonymous chauffeur is a small, dark-haired man of about twenty. His sign is handwritten in blue marker:

 _STINKPOT_.

The people near him are trying not to look at his sign, trying not to grin. And I'm betting that they're waiting to see who will come forward. I sigh, and brace myself for the snickers as I approach him.

"Hi," I say, "I think I'm supposed to meet you." I pointedly ignore the curious glances.

"Excuse me, Miss," says a boy in his late teens, his arm around a girl with pink hair. "We have to ask . . ."

It's none of their business, but I don't want my first words in their country to be rude. So I say, "It's a prank."

"He said you'd say that." The chauffeur guy speaks up.

"He?" I ask.

"Blond, green eyes. Tall. Young. Good-looking bloke, but dirty. Paid me two hundred quid to pick you up with this sign. S'posed to take you to the Strand Palace."

I blink. I stare at the chauffeur suspiciously, my old instincts kicking in. Could he be a kidnapper?

Then I realize how silly I am being. There is only one person in the world who calls me Stinkpot. And if Puck isn't here to meet me, he must have his reasons. Knowing him, it's probably a fish and chips place where he had to spend some quality time.

"Okay, " I say. "Let's go."

* * *

The hotel is beautiful. I am not surprised - I would've bunked at a Bed and Breakfast myself, being practical and all, but we're talking about the Trickster King here: _royalty doesn't sleep on the floor_ and all the other pompous nonsense he's barked at us since the first day we met him.

At the front desk, I hesitate slightly when the clerk asks for my reservation. What name does the King of Faerie go by when he walks among mortals?

"Goodfellow . . . I think. Please." I tentatively offer.

"Ah yes, Mrs. Goodfellow. Welcome to the Strand Palace. Mr. Goodfellow has already checked in and left instructions to have you go up to the room when you arrive. Please enjoy your stay. Do you require assistance?" He presents me a key card and a smile.

I decline, slightly stunned at Puck's married couple cover story. Was that really necessary? Well, I suppose it could've been worse - a reprise of Stinkpot, for instance - so I shouldn't complain. I take the elevator up to my floor and count down the doors until I am outside the room. I let myself in and peer around the entryway wall.

"Hello?"

There is no response.

"Puck?"

Still silence.

I exhale and walk into the room, setting my carry-on on the floor quietly. The room is empty.

The bed - and there is only one - looks like someone has sat on it: the bedspread is wrinkled in the middle. There is a large backpack on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, and a well-worn charcoal pea coat tossed carelessly on one of the armchairs. I walk over to the table near the window. On it is the standard-issue binder filled with guest information, along with a small pad of hotel stationery. There is something scrawled on the top sheet.

 _"If you're reading this, Grimm, you're not dead. Brava. Back later. P"._

Again, I exhale. Why do I feel like I've been holding my breath? I mentally slap myself - this is just Puck. Then I realize that until he turns up, I don't have any plans. So I make my own - a shower, a walk around the neighborhood, some dinner. Suddenly, I am excited about being here - another big city not unlike Manhattan; familiar and yet new. I unzip my suitcase, pull out some clothes, and head to the bathroom.

Two hours later, I am sitting in the bed, my legs tucked under the covers, channel-surfing the flat-screen TV. The second wind I'd gotten after my shower and dinner has died without so much as a puff and I'm feeling the time difference in my bones. There is still no sign of Puck and he isn't answering his cell. I switch the TV off, along with the bedside lamp, and shimmy down deep into the sheets. Within seconds, I am asleep.

* * *

I am pulled out of unconsciousness by an odd scraping sound. At first, I think I am dreaming, but my mind slowly focuses as I open my eyes and pinpoint the source behind the heavy drapes. I am instantly awake, although it is hard to be fully lucid against the heavy fingers of jet-lag tugging on my mind. There is still a little light from behind the bathroom door which I'd left open just a tiny crack, but otherwise I can't see a whole lot. Why did I switch off the lamp earlier?

I slip out of the sheets, looking around for something that could be a weapon but everything is nailed down in this hotel room. I will have to use my fists, which is a pity because I feel out of practice. I hope my body remembers what to do, even if my brain doesn't.

The scraping stops and the drapes rustle. Something is behind them and within seconds, it will emerge, not that I'll actually be able to see it. There is no time to duck into the bathroom. I stand my ground, listening and waiting. I hold my breath.

I see a shadow move toward me, dark even against the dimness of the room. I instinctively lunge, trying to tackle, trip up and side-step all at once. I feel warm flesh, and suddenly my arm is twisted behind me and my face is against the musty carpet on the floor. Something is pressed into my back and I cannot move.

I kick my legs up behind me and connect. It is a feeble kick, but enough to produce a grunt in my attacker. Before I can gain any advantage, however, the pressure on my back intensifies to the point of pain, and then, someone speaks.

"Do that again, and I will break your spine."

It is a man's voice, in a hoarse whisper. Well, at least I know it's human.

Or sounds like it.

In my world, one can never be sure.

I do not struggle; I have other ways to fight back. I wait until I feel the pressure on my back and legs ease. Then the arm on my neck releases and rolls my body on its side.

I bring my knee up and extend my leg into a kick, and hear a satisfying grunt. I finish the roll, throw myself at the man and use my weight to bring him down as I plant my elbow into what I hope is his neck. It is not an eloquent move, but it is hard to aim in the dark.

"Do that again and I will break your face," I return.

Silence for a heartbeat.

And then, "Sabrina."

Darn. I know that voice. It's different than what it used to be when we were children - deeper now, and gruffer in whisper, but still completely familiar.

I release the man and stand up, discombobulated.

"Puck?"

"Duh!"

The shadow that was my attacker rises and moves to the side of the bed. Suddenly, light illuminates the room as the lamp is turned on, and I get my first look at Puck in five years. I stare at him for longer than I should and it strikes me that the chauffeur's description is spot-on: he is, indeed, dirty. And handsome, in that unfairly advantageous way that otherworldly creatures often are.

He stares back at me, and his eyes narrow slightly. I cannot fathom his thoughts. Then his lips slowly curve into a smirk.

"I could've really hurt you!" I finally sputter, just to break the silence.

He guffaws. "As if! You're rusty, Grimm. I got you right away. Plus, you really need to work on your threats." He continues chuckling. " 'Break my face'? Soooooo not going to get you taken seriously."

I recover at last and feel outraged. "What's wrong with you, stupid?! What on earth are you doing climbing in through the freaking window? Why can't you use the door like normal people?"

With my explosion, I feel normalcy return. _This_ is how we have always been with each other, from when we were children, falling back on familiar habits as we grew older, in an unspoken agreement to keep things the same, even when everything else was changing.

Puck shrugs and straightens, in the process moving his torso directly into the yellow cast from the lamp.

I gasp. The front of his shirt is bloody - and still slick. There are long open tears on the fabric covering his chest, the same pattern repeated on his left shoulder.

"Didn't want to create a scene in the lobby," he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as he notices where my gaze rests.

This is not the first time I have seen Puck injured - he'd been marked in the war, for instance, much as he'd liked to deny it. Of course, he'd always healed ridiculously quickly - he had his Everafter blood to thank for that - but the wounds had nonetheless been as real and nasty as any I'd seen on a human. And in spite of them eventually disappearing, that same Everafter blood had still left stains on his clothes - and sometimes the floor - that were just as indelible.

Something had always twisted my gut at the sight of him hurt; I'd never admit it to his face because he'd only scornfully flaunt his invincibility and immortal superiority and make me feel silly. But I'd always remembered that his just-as-immortal father was poisoned, and _died;_ therefore, Puck was just as fragile and just as vulnerable, particularly when he didn't believe it.

And now, seeing him like this makes me feel as if I'd swallowed lead. But I force a dismissive lightness into my tone as I face him.

"Who scratched you this time - one of your disgruntled pixies? Or some barmaid that didn't care for your attention?"

"Now, that's slightly better than 'I could've really hurt you!'" He says the last part in a (poor) imitation of my voice.

"Nuh-uh, Puck. You didn't answer the question."

He flashes a grin and strides nonchalantly toward the bathroom, calling out over his shoulder, "I think I'll take a shower. After that little welcome hug, I've got to wash off all your cooties. Don't let me keep you up, honey!"

And then the door is shut between us and the sound of running water fills the silence in the room.

I roll my eyes. As if I could go back to sleep after all that.

* * *

When Puck emerges later, he has a towel wrapped around his hips. The wounds are clearly visible on his skin - long cuts that are too wide and deep to be scratches from pixies or even tree branches. He walks past me, totally unselfconscious, and pulls clothes out of his backpack. I see another set of wounds on his lower back. I realize I am staring, but I can't help it; I am fascinated - as I've always been- by the two neat folds just below his neck, where his wings are tucked away, hidden from sight. It is only when I notice he is dressing under his towel that I turn away.

"Seriously," I break the silence, "what happened?"

He throws the towel on the chair and runs his fingers though his damp hair.

"I was following a lead. Or at least I thought it was a lead. Turned out it was a dead end. Or a trap. Whatever. Anyway, there was a nasty bunch of wood sprites that didn't appreciate me in their territory."

"I thought you were King of Faerie. Aren't wood sprites supposed to pay you allegiance or something?"

"They do now. Or what's left of them, anyway," Puck says darkly. He sits on the bed with his back to me and holds out a folded facecloth. "Hey, Grimm, press on my back, will ya? I can't reach it."

He doesn't even hiss as I press the towel against the wound, which is still weeping. In the comfortable silence between us, I am again reminded of the war, and how, out in the woods and away from the comforts of base camp, we'd often done this to each other, squatting or kneeling in the darkness as we'd waited for the next explosion, the next dramatic change of scene to prompt us to react. We were younger then, fueled by sheer adrenaline and devotion to our families, just awakening to the layers of richness in our friendship.

A specific memory hits me: lifting the hem of my shirt and pressing it against his back as it bled, while he'd reached behind him, put his hand on mine and whispered, "You are not allowed to die on me."

I'd found the irony hilarious, and it had almost distracted me from realizing that I'd been thinking the same thing in my head about him. I'd put my other arm around him then, his wound and our hands sandwiched tightly between us, and held him.

After the war, we'd gone back to being flighty and capricious with each other and neither of us mentioned that incident again.

I return to the present and peel away the rough fabric to inspect the mess underneath.

"You really should get that dressed," I remark. "Pressing on it with this isn't doing it any favors. Doesn't it hurt?"

"Naw." He breathes out. "I'll live. It'll be gone by tomorrow. I just need it to stop bleeding - don't want to mess up the sheets."

"You are not sleeping in the bed!" I protest, and, in spite of my indignation, I feel a blush on my cheeks.

He turns to look at me, the first real look he's given me since making his grand entrance through the window. It is intense, as if he is searching my face for something I am not aware is mine to give. I move back a little, unsteady under his gaze.

Then he smirks. "Oh, were you planning on being in it, too?"

I growl at him. "Watch it, Stinkhead. I have ways to make your injuries worse."

He laughs. "Scary. Oh, that reminds me: how did you like your ride from the airport? Specifically, how many people came up to you with remarks of shame and derision?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Come on! It was brilliant! Perfect secret password! And humiliating, to boot!"

"It was lame, is what it was. Anyway, the bleeding's stopped." I rise, then hesitate, eyeing the hard brocade couch and then his back, dry now but still raw. "Look, you can sleep on the bed if you want."

He stands as well.

"Not with you in it."

It is said quietly, without malice and with - unless I'd imagined it - a little regret.

* * *

 **A/N: Finally - a reunion! It took 4 chapters, which is my way of saying I like to draw things out. Nothing like the slow burn, I think. Anyway, the goal is to do an update everyday if I can squeeze the time in, but I'm still figuring out the formatting and mechanics of this FF platform. Hold me accountable!**


	5. Chapter 4

I squint awake to the shaft of sunlight slanting into the room through a wide crack in the blinds. I don't feel rested - jet lag and a late-night tussle make for a poor bedtime routine - but I am ready to stop sleeping. I twist myself out of bed and pad on bare feet to my suitcase for my clothes. Puck is asleep on the couch, in only his jeans, the wounds on his bare torso already healed into satiny scars. One leg and arm dangle over the side, his face turned slightly towards the backrest. In the sunlight, his hair is golden slivers over the tips of his ears.

His ears.

It should feel slightly creepy, watching him as he sleeps. But he is hardly ever still when he's awake, and often brashly so; now here he is, right in front of me and I can't help it. I haven't seen him in five years and I am curious about how he has changed, how he might still be growing up - is he? I look at his eyes, closed in slumber, lashes almost silver against his skin, one lid pale in the light and the other hooded in shadow. I take in the planes of his cheekbones, no longer as sharp as when they bookended the wicked twelve-year-old grin after his latest prank; his lips, slightly parted and naturally upturned in the corners, even while at rest. And I linger over his one visible ear, slightly pointed, reminding me that there are centuries between us, that there is so much he knows and has seen and heard that I cannot even begin to imagine. I swallow him with my eyes, surprised that it feels, rather than voyeuristic, not unlike watching a cherished child at play, knowing that he will not be this young forever.

He is breathtakingly beautiful. And my thoughts are anything but maternal.

I turn and walk away.

* * *

By the time I exit the bathroom, Puck is awake and fully dressed, standing by the window. He turns and blinks at me.

"Finally. I thought you'd turned into a Esteronian slime slug and slithered down the drain or something. We need to get going! We've been here almost a whole day, with how much action? Zero! One hundred zillion per cent non-action! I'm practically in a coma! From all this non-action!"

"Stop exaggerating. We haven't even been here half a day. And what do you mean - non-action? What about last night's impromptu martial arts spat?"

"You call that martial arts? You were flopping around like a fish."

He might have meant it as a joke, but his early morning crabbiness makes it sound immature and catty. I shake my head and shrug off his words as he stalks past me into the bathroom, clutching his toothbrush. _We're still not used to each other_ , I tell myself, as I fill my day bag with whatever I think I'd need for a day of treasure-hunting: wallet, tissue pack, the knife Dad had given me on my eighteenth birthday, pepper spray, forgetful dust and a roll of Werther's butterscotch candies, slightly sad-looking from their time on the plane. Then I pick up a light jacket and grab Puck's elbow as he emerges through the doorway.

"You, grouchypants, need coffee. I hope they have good coffee in London."

He makes an extremely rude sound but doesn't disagree.

We don't speak in the elevator, and I fake a smile as we walk past the front desk. The receptionist calls out, "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Goodfellow!" and Puck inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement, just before I shove his shoulder. For some reason, I suddenly feel particularly ill-tempered at this.

"Was that really necessary?" I grumble, once we are out through the glass doors and onto the street.

"What? She was just being polite. And you call _me_ grouchy!"

"No! I meant the wedding jokes! I thought that was just a prepubescent phase for you."

"A phase that _you_ inflicted on me, I'll have you remember."

I open my mouth to retort, and then stop myself.

"I'm not playing this puberty game with you," I sigh. "Get over it, Puck."

He grunts. We walk. Then, after a long silence, he speaks.

"I thought it was a good cover. This is a very secret mission and we need to not be recognized as . . . well, ourselves."

I pull up mid-step and glare at him.

" _Goodfellow_? How is _Goodfellow_ a good cover name? Why not wear your crown and robe and walk around shouting, 'Bow ye! Bow ye to the King of Faerie! Fall on your knees and behold his majesty!' "

He glowers back, squinting against the sun in his eyes. "I didn't pick the name! I used my credit card and they took it off the statement! Sheesh!" He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, then resumes walking.

I stare at his departing back for a while, then sprint to catch up. I feel strange, as if it were someone else's mouth and not mine that was just lashing out. And the vehemence of it was unfamiliar to me as well; wasn't I, just minutes before, serenely watching Puck sleep and feeling all existential and wistful?

I must be more exhausted than I thought. And in more desperate need of caffeine than even Puck.

By the time I reach him, all my fire is gone. I pull on his arm and he stops and turns.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know where that came from. And . . ." I smile sheepishly. "Goodfellow is probably better than, say, John Smith, right?"

He looks at me. He, too, is no longer angry. But rather than grin or snort at my weak joke, he looks perplexed. Then his face smooths itself out and he says, "Buy me breakfast and we'll call it quits."

I groan, because the boy can really eat. But the tension between us is gone, and we feel like ourselves again.

Two hours later and almost 30 pounds poorer, we are on the Tube to Notting Hill Gate.

"Tell me again why we're going antique shopping?" I ask Puck, as we sway to the movement of the train.

"A lead, thanks to last night's wood sprites."

"I thought you said it was a dead end."

"It was. But one of them said something that I wanted to check up."

"What?"

"I think one of the guys who runs a stall at the market knows where the elixir is. So I thought we'd go shopping and see what we can find out. Also, I need a new shirt. I had to toss out yesterday's."

"Too much trouble to wash out the blood?"

"On the contrary, honey buns - the color didn't quite go with my eyes -"

"-and we can't have that-"

"-I'd rather die-"

"-or be locked in a room full of encyclopedias -"

"-with you." He finishes, turning to me, eyes glinting, grinning.

I'm not sure if I've just been insulted or flirted with, but his expression is so benign that I grin back.

* * *

We arrive at the market. Tourists mill about little booths, examining knick-knacks and trinkets on tables and browsing coats on clothing racks. It's not my kind of hangout, but Daphne would love it here. Uncle Jake, too: it's the sort of place where you'd find the unexpected magical item hiding in plain sight among the junk and treasures of impotent humanity.

Puck takes my elbow and leads me through the crowd. It's not so tightly packed that we might get accidentally trampled but dense enough that we could turn aside for a second and lose sight of each other.

Which is exactly what happens as a robustly-built couple suddenly _beg-your-pardon_ s their way between us and Puck momentarily disappears.

As if reading my mind, he calls backward to me, "If we get separated, I'll meet you back here at that table with the ugly belts."

"Why can't you just call me on my cell?" I holler back as I pick up the pace to close the gap between us.

"My phone died. I couldn't find my charger. It's been dead since before I even got to London."

Well, that explains why he didn't answer my calls last night.

"What exactly are we looking for again?" I ask.

" _Who_ , not what. Goblin by the name of Knobloch. Runs a stall here, if those wood sprites were telling the truth."

"Goblin. Among human tourists. I suppose he's in disguise?"

"Yep. But I'll be able to spot him; don't worry. He and I go way back."

We weave through the clusters of people wandering every which way, and I try to stare discreetly at the various proprietors, wondering how good a disguise the goblin must have in order to blend in with the rest of the people. We must have scrutinized almost three-quarters of the stall owners before Puck stops and turns to me.

"There," he says under his breath, "ugly old codger selling equally ugly old knives. Probably poisoned, too."

I peer around Puck. If I hadn't known otherwise, I'd never have thought he was anything but an old man that time hadn't been kind to. But knowing he is a goblin in disguise, it's now obvious: short, hunched, balding, sticky-out-ears, sharp bright eyes, long spindly arms.

Puck walks up to the booth, which is nothing more than a table spread with a few ancient-looking cutting implements, shaded by a large, ragged umbrella taped to one of the legs and in imminent danger of tipping over.

"Old knives! Very rare." The goblin businessman, sensing a potential customer, advertises in a reedy voice.

"Knobloch." Puck pronounces the name just loudly enough for him to hear. "It's been a while."

The goblin startles, freezing for a second. Then he mutters back, "'Who the 'ell are you?"

Puck stares at him evenly. "I'm surprised you don't remember. Especially since I took out half your filthy cronies before the dragons finished off the rest. I wondered where you'd disappeared to after fleeing like a coward. Plundered any more innocent villages since then?"

Knobloch pales, but whether from anger or fear, I can't tell.

"I escaped." He spits defiantly on the ground.

"Riiiight." Puck smiles coldly. "I. Let. You. Go. Spared your life. Therefore, you _owe_ me."

The goblin scowls but does not disagree. He stays sullen, bony hands clutching the edge of the table and eyes darting from Puck's face to either side of his booth. _Probably planning an escape_ , I think.

Puck continues. "Chill, Knobloch. I'm not here to kill you. Or even hurt you. Well . . . unless you're unhelpful. I just want some information."

"Wha' about?" Knobloch replies reluctantly.

"I heard that you know something about an elixir that brings back the dead."

A look of cunning crosses Knobloch's face for an instant before it is once more a mask of seething resentment.

"I don't know naught'n about an' elixir."

I reach for Puck's hand, to tell him I'm sure the goblin is lying, but Puck must already know this, because his eyes narrow and he speaks even more quietly.

"Filthy low-life. You are bound by oath to tell me what I ask. If I have to remind you again, it will be with my knife, and my minions will haul you back to Faerie to forfeit your life. And I will not be merciful like before."

Knobloch glares at Puck, his thin lips bared in a sneer. Around me, the human tourists ignore us, opting to patronize the booths with more colourful and less depressing-looking wares. No one seems to notice the silent battle of wills between the two Everafters.

Finally, Knobloch sags and drops his gaze. I marvel at this side of Puck - he'd always been cocky and in-your-face boastful to the point of ludicrousness, but this is the first time I've seen him intimidate someone by the sheer power of his authority. This oath card he's pulling must be a big deal in the Fae world.

"Wha'da you want t' know?" Knobloch asks, resigned.

"Everything. Let's start with 'Where is it?' and 'How do I get it?' "

"The Prince 'as it. Last I 'eard, anyway. As for 'ow t'get it, you 'ave to steal it, because e's sure as a pig's eye not giv'n it away for free. 'E stole it 'iself, you know, from the Queen. Wants to resurrect an army o' dead goblins an' overthrow the King. As if you dun' know that, _Your Majesty_." Knobloch sneers mockingly at Puck. "Stupid royal politics. No wonder th' kingdom is falling apart. Cursed royals can't ev'n keep from fighting an' killing theyselves."

I have to listen hard to make out what he's saying. He has an inconsistent, mixed accent - part local, parts somethings else, as if he's cobbled together a personal language from years spent in different places and uses whichever versions of it he fancies at the time.

"Why hasn't he used it? Or has he?" I ask. "I mean, it sounds like he still has it."

The goblin casts me a patronizing look, as if noticing me for the first time, even though I'd been standing next to Puck all along. He ignores my question, blinking away.

Puck whispers in my ear, "He won't answer you. He doesn't have to. I'll have to make him."

Then he turns back to Knobloch. "Answer her."

Knobloch spits on the ground again, but he speaks. "''Ow th' 'ell do I know? The King is still King, in'ee? And there ain't no dead armies marching through th' streets, ain' there? An' th' whole blessed kingdom is still a bloody mess. Mebbe 'e's just biding 'is time."

Puck is silent for a second, digesting this. Then he fires off another question at Knobloch. "Where's the Prince now?"

Knobloch shrugs. "Leicester. At the U. Visiting one o' them professors. Some expert in dark spells or some diploma'ic rubbish."

"We have to get to him!" I blurt out.

Knobloch laughs without mirth. "Then y'best be headn' over there right away. E's only 'ere till tomorrow night, an' then e's goin' 'ome."

"Where's home?"

"Florida."

"Florida?" I was expecting somewhere European and wild and old and foresty. I was not expecting warm sunshine and citrus groves and sandy beaches filled with more tourists than even London.

Puck explains, "Goblins like warm places." Then he resumes his questioning. "Does the Prince have the elixir with him?"

Knobloch snorts. "Do I look like 'Is 'Ighness's servant-in-waitin' that I'd know what 'e takes with 'im when 'e's out gallivanting?"

Puck ignores the jab and stares thoughtfully at the surly goblin.

"Alright, we're done," he announces finally. "Your debt is paid. But if you were lying to me. . ."

Knobloch hisses at him, "I speak the truth under the oath!"

Puck takes my hand and backs away from the goblin and his table of old knives, quickly pulling me into the crowd.

"Come, quick. We need to get to the prince before he leaves for home. Also . . ." he glances quickly over his shoulder. "Knobloch is now free of his debt to me. There's nothing to stop him throwing a couple of those knives into our backs. And taking out a few innocent tourists in the process. They may be stupid and ugly, but goblins are very good shots."

When we are back on the Tube, I realize two things. The first is that I can breathe easily again; I must have been holding everything in for most of the way back to the station. I decide it must be the shock of seeing firsthand that Everafters, complete with social systems and kingdoms, are living among us all over the world and not just in the privacy of Ferryport Landing or New York City. Some of these Everafters, as today's encounter ominously reminds me, are dangerous. That in itself doesn't surprise me, at least not the way it did when I'd first learned about them. After all, there were always villains in the tales I grew up on - the best plots were practically fueled by them.

What did surprise me was how, in the years following the war and Mirror's death, all that evil Everafterness didn't disappear with him and his nefarious scheme of world domination. I discovered that good and evil had always been a part of the world of Everafters just as they had always been a part of ours. And they didn't manifest only in villains and dictators or benevolent kings and Good Witches; that dichotomy of integrity and depravity extended to regular folk as much in the storybook world as in mine.

Which made Everafters seem as . . . _normal_ as we are and, in spite of all their superpowers and immortality, just as flawed.

The second is that I am still holding Puck's hand, and it feels thrillingly new and - inexplicably - achingly familiar.


	6. Chapter 5

I eventually let go.

Holding hands is funny - so many nuances, so much significance, and everything to do with context. Like when years ago, courtesy of a tear in the space-time continuum, I'd just found out that Puck and I were married in the future. Daphne and I were about to sneak out of the house and Puck had offered an airlift, hovering outside the window with his hand outstretched for me to take. Like I'd done who knows how many times before.

Except that time, holding his hand was weird because _we_ were now weird from the knowledge of what we might be to each other.

And now, here I am - again -analyzing what our hands mean. Puck had no reaction when I'd released my grip.

Or while I was gripping.

I decide that it mustn't even be on his radar.

Which reminds me: I should Skype Marian sometime on this trip. At the end of the semester, we were a couple of meetings from tying everything up and clocking the hours I needed, and Marian had suggested a videoconference while I was home visiting Mom and Dad. I'm comfortable enough now with Marian that I know how to field her questions and pick my conversations, so that I actually miss her when we take breaks. Surprise! Today is full of them.

We're in a rental car now, having checked out of The Strand Palace in a hurry to get to Leicestershire before the goblin prince left. Puck is driving with one hand and holding an enormous pasty in the other, leaving a trail of crumbs down the front of his shirt as he eats. We'd had a small argument about the driving versus navigating arrangement, which he'd won by listing his exploits behind the wheel in all the major European cities and British colonies while traversing the globe with Uncle Jake. Relegated to route director, my lap is completely obscured by a crinkly road map, which I'm also using as a tablecloth for my lunch. Although it really is tea, since we've been driving for about two and a half hours past lunchtime.

"Do we turn off here or next?" Puck asks with his mouth full.

I flick away a large chunk of pastry and find our exit under it.

"Next," I tell him. I wash down my mouthful with water and hand him the bottle, turning to look out the window. The early summer sun is warm and generous on the fields dotted with little daisies. Between us, a comfortable silence sits.

"So," Puck begins. "I heard you're back at school. What are you gonna do after?"

"Don't know. Get a job. Live life."

"Ugh. Sounds boring."

"Some of us don't have fun kingdoms to lord it over. We climb the social ladder like all the other plebeians without super powers or a fancy lineage."

"You have a fancy lineage."

"Which one - fairytale detectives? Everafter cultural brokers? Or -wait - gatekeepers of dangerous magic spells and creatures from your worst nightmares?"

"You missed out 'The Dear Diary Scribe Tribe'. Catchy, isn't it?"

I huff.

"You can't be serious, Sabrina. Do you really want to be just another normal, boring Manhattan lawyer?"

"Psychologist."

"What? I thought you were in law school. Or taking the bar. Or something along those lines, last I heard."

"Where did you hear that? Nope, I'm getting a Psych. degree and starting my own practice. To help all the people with war trauma and stuff like that. People like us, you know."

Puck momentarily shifts his gaze from the road to focus on me. "Speak for yourself! I'm not traumatized. I _live_ for wars! All that awesome fighting! Anyway, how many wars were you in? I bet I've been in more."

"That's because you're older than the earth, idiot."

"And yet I still look amazing." He preens to an imaginary audience, grinning. "It's genes, ladies. And no, I'm sorry - you can't buy it in a jar on Amazon."

"Puck, you're still growing up."

It comes out of nowhere, before my brain can filter it.

Puck's abrupt silence is conspicuous, his face a mask.

"Why are you still growing up?" I press.

"No reason to stop," he finally says, off-handedly.

"Why not?" I am fishing now, and I don't care.

"You know why."

No, I don't. I could guess, but that would be presumptuous; what was true when we were eleven may not be true now, after everything that happened - and, more importantly, _didn't_ happen - in the years after.

Suddenly, I regret wanting his answer, in case it isn't the one I'd been hoping to hear.

Puck chews his lip. Then his face lights up.

"Exit!" He crows. "Back to work!"

* * *

Even with classes all out, trying to find the elusive goblin prince on a campus the size of the one on which we've just arrived is, at best, impossible. And I say so to Puck.

He waves his hand dismissively in response.

"Here's where we send in the advance party," he says. Then he ducks into a little secluded space between two buildings, out of sight, pulls a little pan pipe out of his pocket and blows a few notes on it.

Nothing happens.

"Sometimes it takes them a while to find me," he explains when he sees my expression.

"Please don't tell me they have to fly all the way from Ferryport Landing."

"What? Of course not! Don't you know how it works?"

"Actually, I don't. I've never asked. Also, we've never summoned them anywhere else. Because, you know, we've never been anywhere else."

"Speak for yourself, Grimm. _I've_ been all over the world," he retorts, eyes scanning the nearby trees. Seeing nothing, he turns back to me. "There are pixies everywhere, right? Whichever ones are nearby when I call them, will come. Easy."

"Oh! I'd always thought they were territorial. Do all the pixies in the world have to obey you?"

"Me and any other Fae royalty."

"That must make it slightly awkward during, I dunno, holiday get-togethers at the palace. Talk about conflicts of interest. Or loyalties."

"Don't get me started. Once, Mother and Father were . . ." Puck stops as a twittering cloud of small pixies arrives, hovering around his head. He barks out instructions for locating the goblin prince and they disappear.

"Now, we wait." He wanders back out onto the sunlit lawn, collapses onto the grass and stretches out on his back, fingers linked behind his head. Around us, students continue to walk across the lawns between summer classes and other engagements. I sit down beside Puck, preparing for a long wait. I suddenly feel ready for a nap. The long journey to Leicester, in spite of not actually driving a single mile of it myself, was exhausting.

A thought suddenly hits me. "Hey! Didn't that knife seller say the Prince was visiting a professor here? Some Dark Arts guy? I bet the Admin. Building has a staff directory - we could look him up!"

Puck gives an exaggerated snore.

I poke him. "Stop pretending. I know you're not asleep. Look - it doesn't look like your minions are coming back and we're wasting precious time just sitting here doing nothing."

He opens one brilliant green eye.

"How many Universities do you know that have Dark Arts professors?" He asks, dryly. "And no, you can't say Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts isn't a University, dummy. More importantly, it isn't real."

"Exactly. Knobloch was just spewing trash. Nobody teaches Dark Arts, whatever that is. The only person who's anybody in any kind of Dark Arts is Baba Yaga, and I don't think she wants to share her knowledge, least of all with puny humans."

"Well, I'm going to ask anyway. Maybe the Admin. people have seen a horse and carriage drive up with a prince in it. Or the paparazzi."

Puck sits up and snorts. "A horse and carriage for the goblin prince? If you knew that piece of . . ."

I pull him up from the ground before he can continue his commentary.

* * *

By a marvelous stroke of luck (and helpful administrative staff), we find our answer in the form of Martin Hidsworth, Professor of Archaeology. The building's reception clerk, however, informs us that he "may not be able to entertain visitors because he is hosting a visiting dignitary."

"Ah, yes - that would be me," Puck solemnly intones. "Kindly direct us to his office."

I elbow him and smile apologetically at the astonished woman. "Please excuse my friend. He has delusions of grandeur. Clearly, we need to up the voltage at his next electrotherapy session. We'll try our luck anyway, and we're happy to wait."

Once out of earshot, I hiss at Puck, "Don't you know when to be serious?"

"If you have to ask me that, you clearly don't know me at all." He tosses his hair casually and heads in the direction instructed by the secretary.

We find the office on the third floor. I raise my fist to knock on the door and pause, stepping back into the hallway.

"What's our story?" I ask Puck.

"Oh, let's see - I was thinking 'Hey! We were in the neighborhood and, out of the blue, randomly picked you, a total stranger, to visit' might work."

"Yeah, right. Even Daphne wouldn't believe that, and she believes anything."

"No, I'm serious! Look - we don't really give a hoot about this Professor Thingummy; we really just want the royal Whosit visiting him, right?"

"Right," I allow, cautiously.

"So we knock on the door, literally say we were in the neighborhood, and that we'd heard Prince Rhogin was stopping by, and as he and I were childhood playmates, I thought I'd say hello."

"Really - you were childhood playmates?"

"In the loosest sense of the word. My father didn't care much for Gurdach, the King - cruel and conniving sleaze bag - and Rhogin wasn't any better. But we - Mustardseed and I - had to act nice whenever they visited and not punch back or anything, so yeah, I think I've earned the right to drop a name or two."

"So he'd recognize you."

Puck shrugs. "Unfortunately not; his loss. He'd know my name - I mean, who wouldn't? But he'll be expecting a boy, since it's no secret that I was going to stay that way forever."

"Surely you've kept in touch since then? I mean, don't you kings and princes have to keep up to date with each other in royaldom?"

Puck shakes his head. "Obviously, the playdates stopped after he began growing up and I didn't. I've seen him a few times since then, and always at those awful meetings that Everafter rulers are forever having. We'd say hello, but that was it - it's hard for a grown prince to have an engaging conversation with a kid, even one as awesome as me. And after Father died, Mother didn't bother to keep in touch with his family. Goblins aren't our favorite Everafters to hang with, and the royal family even less so."

It still feels strange to remember that sometime in his perpetual youth, Puck had actually had a childhood.

"So, we knock, then?" I turn from my musing.

"Yeah." Puck says, and walks up to the door.

Just as he is about to knock, the small cloud of pixies at last makes its appearance, flying down the hallway and buzzing around his head. He listens, and then turns to me with a grin.

"Rhogin's just left the building! We must have missed him on the way up. No need for Professor Smartypants after all. Let's go!" He breaks into a run. "We'll intercept him before he leaves the campus!"

"With the same _I Was In The Neighborhood_ story, I suppose." I groan and roll my eyes. "We'd make terrible spies. We have no imagination at all."

"Give me some credit, Grimm!" Puck calls back as he takes the last few stairs two at a time, speed-walks to the front door and bursts out into the evening sunshine. He squints and scans the grassy courtyard around us, then points.

"There he is!"

And we are off again, weaving our way around students, shrubs and the occasional lawn ornament. Puck suddenly veers to the side, pulling me behind a larger brick building, and breaks into a run along its length.

When we emerge at the other end of our detour, I am panting slightly from my own sprint to keep up. Puck glances quickly around the corner, then saunters casually out into the open, grabbing my hand and swinging it casually between us. To the ignorant onlooker, we appear to be a couple strolling leisurely around the campus.

"Look, honey!" Puck says in a loud voice. "Doesn't that stonework remind you of that bridge back home?"

Before I can answer, he stops in his tracks and expertly avoids a near-collision with someone.

"Oh, excuse me," Puck says, and turns to look at the person. He drops his jaw slightly in surprise and is speechless for a second or two. Then, "Rhogin? Prince Rhogin?"

His act is impressively sincere. If I hadn't known he was putting it on, I'd have fallen for it myself.

The Prince hesitates, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. "Do I know you?"

Puck extends his hand. "Puck. Your father knew mine - Oberon."

It is the Prince's turn to drop his own jaw.

"Puck? By the stars! I didn't recognize you! But . . . I was under the impression that you'd sworn to stay eleven forever!"

Puck grins easily.

"I changed my mind. Oberon is dead. It's awkward being King of Faerie when you're a child. Also. . ." He releases my hand and puts his arm around my shoulders. "May I present Sabrina Grimm? She's also why I grew up."

This is the first time I've heard him say it without whining or complaining. I'd give anything to know if it's part of his act or not.

Or maybe I wouldn't.

Prince Rhogin and I finally make eye contact. He does not look anything like the goblins over whom he is supposed to preside. He is - or at least, looks - human, and a rather fine specimen of one, if I'm feeling generous enough to admit it. Handsome in a haughty, arrogant way, he holds himself with the confidence of the entitled in the prime of his life. His deep blue eyes do not stray from my face but I know that he is somehow sizing up the rest of me nonetheless, and what he sees is turning wheels in his head.

I smile at him and say, "Your Highness, I am honored." I hope it is the right thing to call him; I've never been good around royalty.

His lips turn up in response as he takes my hand and kisses it.

"My Lady." His eyes remain on mine.

Then he straightens and once more includes Puck in our cosy little group huddle.

"Well. What brings you here, King of Faerie?"

"Sabrina is interested in grad school. Leicester has a good reputation. We thought we'd check it out and make a holiday of it." The lie slips easily out of Puck's mouth. "What about you, Rhogin? And you without your entourage! Surely you're not here for academic pursuits?"

"Oh, I like traveling incognito, just as you - clearly - do," the Prince returns smoothly. "I'm here to visit an old friend - one of the staff. I haven't seen him in years and it was nice to catch up."

"Ah. And how is your father?" Puck is in full diplomatic force as he and Rhogin exchange pleasantries and news from home. They drop names I have never heard of and mention events straight out of fantasy novels. They sound to all the world like old friends who had once enjoyed a more innocent childhood, before the weight of generations' worth of responsibility settled on their shoulders and turned them into men. Under the surface, though, I sense an undercurrent of something stiff and defensive - two powerful people dancing around each other, trying not so much to sense the other's weakness as their strengths, so as to avoid playing into them. Observing them in their game, I am not entirely certain that it is only Puck who has had to, as he'd described earlier, "play nice".

". . . Yes, we'd love to." I suddenly snap back from my train of thought to hear that Puck has agreed to something. And just as suddenly, the two men have shaken hands again, and Prince Rhogin, with a nod and smile at me, walks away.

"Where'd ya go, Grimm?" Puck asks, staring at me.

"Huh?"

"You were zoning out for the longest time. His Royalness squeezed us into his incredibly busy schedule tomorrow - I, with no help from you whatsoever, cunningly manipulated him into inviting us to lunch at his hotel before he leaves for home." He pauses and then adds, sardonically, "You're welcome."

"I was just thinking," I say, realizing that I must have looked incredibly rude, just standing there psychoanalyzing the childhood issues of the two Everafter monarchs as they did their male bonding thing. I hope I'd at least been smiling during.

"Well, don't. You missed the googly eyes His Constipated Majesty was giving you."

I frown at him.

"He was not."

"He totally was! Not that you'd be able to argue otherwise, seeing as your eyes were everywhere but."

He pauses thoughtfully, then rubs his hands together gleefully. "It's good, though. You were completely oblivious. It's a perfect plan."

I do not like the sound of this. It reminds me too much of the pranks that littered my miserable road to teenagehood.

"Puck? What plan? What are you talking about?"

"We seduce him, and get the elixir! And be home by sundown! And by 'we', I mean 'you'."

And just like that, I hate him.

Something breaks inside me as I stand there, like a tiny bubble bursting on a sharp bough and turning its insides loose in a shower of protest. I am a crucible of rage, so livid that I cannot bring myself to speak. I whip around and walk away, as quickly as I can without actually running. My head feels like it will explode.

There is a lag, and then I hear Puck call out. He sounds amused.

I keep marching away from him, willing my legs to open a chasm between us. Why am I so angry?

He grabs my shoulder. I fling off his hand.

 _Stride, stride, stride._

Why am I so angry?

"Grimm."

 _Getawaygetawaygetawaygetaway. Stridestridestride._

Why am I so angry?

I hear Marian's voice in my head: _anger sits on hurt. Who has hurt you? Name the feelings. Bring them out of the dark._

"Sabrina!" He grips my shoulder and forcefully spins me around to face him. There is no laughter in his face.

I plant my feet and look at him. _Who has hurt me? What else am I feeling?_

"Sabrina." He says again, when I do nothing. "What was that all about?"

I am shaking, but I still don't have words.

"Sabrina. Talk to me. What's going on? You just flipped. Was it the plan? Come on, it's not like you couldn't do it. After all, you-"

I slug him in the jaw.

And I watch him in slow motion: recoil, stumble backward, hold his face, recover, frown.

"What the heck?" He shouts. I don't even care that there may be people watching.

"I don't like being used." I finally find words.

"What? It's not like that! Is that what you're afraid of? I won't let him lay a finger-"

Of all the twisted emotions I am feeling in that moment, fear is not one of them.

"I'm being used," I say. "From the beginning of this stupid treasure hunt, people have been telling me what to do, where to go, whom to look for, how to get what we want. You, Mom, Dad, Daphne, the freaking goblin and, now, the Prince. You just want to use me. Well, good luck with that. I'm done."

But Puck has his hand on my arm before I can leave. "Sabrina, stop. Wait. No. It's not like that at all. I - your family - we'd never do that - ow." He cups his cheek with his other hand - the effort of his argument is clearly not helping his jaw. "Man! How could I forget that you do that evil thing with your fist? I'm one of the good guys, remember?"

"What happened to the 'villain of the worst kind'?"

He gives me a strange look. "I haven't been that in a while."

"You haven't been anything in a while." My fury is still raw, seeping out with each word, each breath.

There was a game we used to play as children, in which we'd insult each other and say demeaning things that were meant to be witty. He'd pick on the way I looked and I'd find creative ways to tell him I didn't need him. If anything hit the mark - and it often did because we knew each other so well - we learned to laugh it off, to convince ourselves that the strong prevailed and only the weak hid behind walls.

But by the time he'd left, I wasn't strong; I was damaged. Not by his barbed words about my appearance - I was fortunate to have enough other people tell me the opposite that I believed them - but by how, even after we'd talked about our future together, he was cavalier and presumptuous. I came to the only conclusion there was: we -us - weren't real. We never were.

And it was then that I built the walls. After that, he could flit in and out of my life and it wouldn't mean anything. He could hold my hand and say he'd missed me, and it wouldn't mean anything. He could make all the marriage jokes he wanted to and it wouldn't mean anything. He could kiss me, like he did that evening at the end of my childhood, tumbling passionately into my personal space and making my heart ache with his beauty, and it wouldn't mean anything.

I would not need him.

And now, the game is on again. Swerve. Parry. Deflect.

I gaze impassively at the hurt on Puck's face. Score one.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He says quietly.

I shrug. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Or choose my life."

His bewilderment is so comical that it's almost adorable.

"Are we even talking about the same thing?" He finally asks when he finds his voice. "It's just tactical strategy, woman! Not some midlife crisis! I knew it - you're freaking insane."

Oh, he did not just go there. Mom and Dad must have told him.

"This had better not be about Marian, Puck. I'm not crazy. I -"

"Who the devil is Marian? You know what? I don't care. This conversation can go to hell. This whole quest can go to hell." He exhales loudly and storms off.

And then stops and swears.

And, seconds later, comes back.

"I'm sorry." He looks utterly defeated. "I promised I wouldn't . . . I just don't . . . I'm sorry."

And then he hugs me.

I am stunned.

I don't hug back.

He must realize this, because he pulls away and looks, if it is possible, even more broken than before. He chews his lower lip and says dully, "We should find a hotel or someplace. It's getting late."

As if his pronouncement has made it so, I am newly aware that dusk has fallen around us. The campus is almost deserted now, and quiet. I am abruptly exhausted and I feel light-headed. I have to stop blowing off like this - it's all well and good while the adrenaline is my wonderfuel but it leaves me a limp shell when it is over.

"Yeah," I reply. "I'm suddenly really tired. Must be all this pursuing and international espionage."

And then I trip over my own feet and collapse.

* * *

 **A/N: Hm. Angst. And fists. Never a good combination.**

 **And yes, Judgemental Praise: Marian will keep popping into the story. She's kind of important.**

 **OakeX: Hello - good to meet you! I'm happy to supply angst. Gotta have some angst, right? if nothing else, so Sabrina and Marian will have something talk about.**

 **Thanks for the reviews, everyone!**


	7. Chapter 6

Apparently, I must have blacked out because the next thing I see are long fluorescent lights stretching across a ceiling pockmarked with plaster peeking out underneath weathered paint. I am lying in a bed. I sit up slowly, expecting my head to spin like it should after a dramatic faint, but I feel completely normal, as if I'm waking up from a good night of sleep.

I am alone. Puck is nowhere in sight and I have absolutely no idea of how I got here. I look around and see a note on the bedside table. It is in Puck's handwriting, scribbled on a little plain pad without a letterhead:

 _"Out to find grub. Stay here till I get back. P."_

Deja vu. I suppose I should expect another grand entrance through the window, I think, glancing at the thin curtains. No light sneaks in between them - it must be dark outside. How long have I been asleep? Or unconscious?

Almost five hours, according to my watch.

Having established my time zone, I stand and explore the room. It is large and spartan, with outdated wallpaper, six cot-like single beds in a row, and a washbasin in a corner, next to a rickety door that opens into a small bathroom. Puck must have booked us into a budget B&B and we got the fancy dorm that must be their version of the royal suite. A far cry from The Strand Palace, I muse, but at least it doesn't feel like anyone will slap names and labels on me here.

I find my suitcase next to one of the other beds where Puck must have brought it in from the car, and take out my laptop. I have some time to kill and I'm thinking that I should Skype Marian - heaven knows I need someone to unload my crazy day on. I do a quick time zone conversion and decide it's evening in New York. I plug in, dial up and get Marian online. She's still in her office.

The first few minutes are pleasantries and re-establishing rapport - how was all the traveling, how's everyone at home, it must be nice to see the family, what's new that's happened?

Then we dive right into Where I Am. I tell Marian about this trip, that I'm here to relax after a tough semester. I mention my family friend who is my traveling companion. _Puck_. I hear myself sounding self-conscious as I pronounce it, as if it means something more to me than just a name. I pause after I say it. And Marian picks up on it.

"You've never mentioned him before," she prompts. "How do you know him?"

I have thought about how to explain Puck to Marian. I have created safe descriptions of him, normalized pictures of our history. Even our bizarre future, tentatively suggested in a waking vision, will be reframed as a harmless What If conversation between two regular - if impulsive - people on the brink of turning their friendship into an unstable romantic experiment.

But these careful versions come undone as I hear her question.

"I know him," I say quietly, "so well," I inhale, "that I can hurt him over and over again."

"Tell me about that," Marian responds, just as quietly.

And I tell her. I tell her about my bursts of anger whose source I don't know. I tell her about feeling used by him and my family. I tell her that we were supposed to mean something to each other. I tell her that he grew up for me - and let her assume I meant it figuratively - and then something happened that I can't be sure of, and he left. I tell her that I am afraid he has ruined it for every other relationship I've had and will ever have, because I want him and I can't have him. I tell her about my walls that keep him safely where he cannot devastate me. I tell her that we are now exactly as we were when we were children, before the flirting became more than just a game. I tell her that I don't need him because he doesn't need me back. I'm sure she can hear me lying.

Oddly, I don't mind if she can.

"Where is he now?" Marian asks when I am finally done.

"Out getting dinner."

"What are you going to do when he gets back?"

"Be the same as before."

"Sabrina." Marian's tone, to her credit, is nonjudgmental. "How can we move forward?"

I don't know if I can. If I _want_ to. Is there a point if I already know how it will turn out?

" _He_ left," I say at last. "I don't think the ball is in my court."

"And yet here he is with you, doing something together. How is that going?"

How can I even figure that out myself, let alone analyze it for someone else? The words to describe the weirdness, the ache, the cruel mockery of everything haven't been coined yet. I struggle with my observation, but I say it anyway.

"I think . . . that he is okay with . . . that he must be happier . . . now . . . with . . . what we are."

"That must be hard for you."

Yes, it is.

But not because it hurts to _be_ with him - my walls are still working fine. It's hard because I'm debilitated with wanting what we never let ourselves have.

And my walls are useless against that.

In the pregnant silence that follows, I hear fumbling outside the door and the click of the key card, and I tell Marian I have to go. I close the laptop just as Puck enters the room. His eyes take in everything with one look, and then settle on me.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. What did I miss?"

He sets a paper bag down on the nightstand next to my bed. "Not a whole lot. You conked, I drove us to the first motel I came to, and went out to get food. Took me a while - almost everything's closed this late."

He tips his head towards the paper bag. "Pork pie. You'll like it. Salty and delicious. And a salad. I"ll never understand why females like grass for meals. You must have cow genes."

I must have looked quite stunned because Puck snorts. "What? I know what you like. You always eat the same thing!"

"I'm just speechless because you didn't bring me chips and a dead squid or something," I recover enough to say, although my mind is still stuck on _I know what you like_. Because it's completely true about the salads and salty food. Has Uncle Jake been telling him all sorts of stuff about me? Why?

"I wouldn't waste chips on you," he shoots back, then sits down beside me on the bed. "Seriously, Grimm, what happened to you?"

I falter under his gaze. "Dunno. Just tired, I guess. I'm fine now, though, after the uh… nap."

He stares at me longer than is polite, as if this will reveal pertinent symptoms that will lead to a diagnosis, but his eyes are concerned, not calculating. Then something in his face softens and there is an intensity in his look that raises goosebumps on my skin. I stare back, acutely aware that under different circumstances, in a more innocent time, we might have moved across the gap, stepped precariously over the brink.

But the moment passes, and my ache abates. He rises and calls out gaily, "Never a dull moment with you. By the way, who were you talking to before I came in?"

What the hey. I decide to tell him.

"My therapist. Class requirement to have so many hours of personal therapy. I'm a little short, so I'm making it up while on vacation. Or whatever this trip is. Hurrah for Skype."

"You got internet connection?" He turns, amazed. "How in the world . . .? We're out in the boondocks! I couldn't even get my phone to work to order pizza! And just when I found the charger, too!"

"Didn't have a problem. I must be in a hotspot," I say absently, while digging into dinner. The pie is salty perfection.

Puck stares at me again (if he weren't so easy on the eye, I'd be quite annoyed), muttering, "Of all the dumb luck," and flips open my laptop to look. After a minute of frowning at the screen, he turns back to me, still perplexed.

"What?" I say. "You got a lousy phone. Nothing I can do about that."

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, still frowning. Finally, he stretches and mumbles through a yawn, "Well, I'm whipped. Think I'll go to bed. We have an important date with His Snottyness tomorrow and we -" he raises an eyebrow pointedly at me, "- need to look our best."

"Take your pick." I gesture grandly to the row of beds. "You got us the youth camp suite, it looks like."

"And I made sure to specify 'Co-ed'." He grins back wickedly. "All the hanky-panky we want and no camp counselors to tell us to cut it out."

Suddenly, it isn't funny. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. He is not helping if he keeps playing this twisted game.

He must feel the air ice over because his smirk disappears and he bites his lip, his face a web of dark emotion. He stares at the beds, hesitating slightly. Then, without a word, he pulls the covers off the one next to mine, looking as if he would give anything to instead have picked the one farthest away. He kicks off his shoes and slides under the sheets without getting undressed. The awkwardness sinks between us like fog coming out of nowhere, thick and paralyzing.

I finish my salad even though I have lost my appetite, turn off the light and sit in the darkness, wishing I were not so refreshed from my nap, so that I could go back to sleep and leave this day behind me. Maybe tomorrow, I think, we'll wake up and find ourselves once again conveniently back on this side of the brink.

I sit some more. The words are on the tip of my tongue. I think of Marian watching me, watching us, virtually mediating.

The words roll off.

"Why did you leave?"

They fall into the fog and are sucked in without so much as an echo.

And eternity drags by before Puck shifts, almost imperceptibly, and his voice comes, measured and hollow.

" _I_ left?"

"Yes. You left. Why?"

Puck is still for a very long time, and I watch his side rise and fall as he breathes heavily. Then he suddenly turns over towards me, the sheets rustling as he moves. I cannot see his face in the darkness.

"Is that what you're believing now? Huh. Here's what I'm believing: _you_ left." There is brokenness in his voice that I didn't expect. " _You_ decided it was best for _you_ and _you_ left. Maybe you don't actually remember saying those words. Maybe it was your way of saying you got tired of me. Let's agree on that, why don't we? But don't say it was me. I would _never_ leave you. I. Promised."

"You left with Uncle Jake to tour the world!"

"What? That was ages ago! And I came back! I . . ."

"Oh, sure. Every couple of years. And then one day, you stopped coming back. Uncle Jake never said where you were. And nobody would talk about it. I thought it was a conspiracy, or that you'd run off with someone else, changed your mind. And then I thought that maybe there was never anything to change your mind _from_ , nothing ever there to start with. That we were never anything to you. That _I_ was never anything."

"Not true." Puck's voice is so quiet, so tired. "I freaking _promised_ you, Sabrina. I came back just like I promised. I . . ." He falls back against the pillows, and I hear the light slap of his hands as they grasp his head. "Oh, but you wouldn't believe me. What's the point?"

"You must think I'm stupid, Puck. How could I have left you when I stayed behind? When _I_ was the one waiting all those years? While _you_ were gone?"

Puck's voice is a hoarse whisper by now. "There's more than one way to leave, Sabrina."

He sighs again. "Please, just stop. Believe what you want. I can't do this anymore."

The words end.

The fog stays, heavier. And as I lay awake, alternately seething and desperate, I listen to him breathe. It almost sounds as if he is choking on tears.

* * *

 **A/N: Short chapter tonight, because this seemed a good place to stop. This one made me sad. But - hey - there's Marian again! And Marian makes me happy. Also, one of my favorite chapters is coming up soon, which makes me doubly happy that I can share it with you!**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N 1: Posting early today while I can because timewise, I suspect the day is only going downhill from here. Short chapter again today. Tomorrow's will be mammoth. Enjoy.**

* * *

I dream of Bradley.

We are sitting on a bench in Central Park, watching one of the many baseball games that play out on its sandy diamonds. The humid summer air rings with chatter, the short barks of dogs, and the occasional crack of a bat. Bradley has his arm around the back of the bench, leg crossed over his knee, his dark eyes squinting against the sun. I lean in and savor the cocktail of smells about him - his aftershave, the laundry detergent wafting off his shirt, the natural scent of his skin. We are quiet as we watch the runner on third race toward home, the crowd responding lazily, as if scoring a run on a hot day were too much of an effort to celebrate.

"Let's move in together," he says suddenly, still staring out at the game.

No "Maybe" or "You know . . ." or "I've been thinking". Just straight out there without preamble.

I didn't see that coming.

We'd been together almost nine months. He was handsome, quiet, down-to-earth and attentive. It had taken me a few casual outings to be convinced that I'd liked him, and then we were dating. Initially, I was unsure of what to make of his manner - always considerate, always sensible; mature. So different than what I'd been used to with . . . my other relationships. He'd made me feel normal, and I'd loved that. We'd seen each other exclusively but never talked about going beyond dating to something more committed.

Until - it seemed - now.

"I love you, Sabrina," he continues, finally turning his eyes to me. He is serious, as he always is. "I don't want to push you or anything . . . but I'd like us to be more . . . if you want to, I mean. And . . . I just want you to know my intentions. I don't want you to have to guess where this is going. I'm sure of you."

I have no words. My heart thumps in my ears, whether from shock or the thrill of feeling wanted this way, I can't tell. Bradley is still watching me, waiting for my reaction. The fact that I am speechless and staring must not bode well for him, because he begins to lean away, hesitating.

"No, no, Brad," I say quickly. "I just didn't expect it. I don't know what to say."

"Say yes." He says it earnestly, carefully, and then smiles his lovely smile. "When you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."

He takes my hand and holds it, then looks back at the baseball game, clearly lopsided in the favor of the team in the blue T shirts.

 _When I'm ready_.

 _If_ I'm ready.

I'd never told him about Puck. I'd convinced myself of this: we were never truly official, so there was nothing to tell. So, really, this decision should have been a no-brainer: move in together, last long enough to decide we wanted this to be permanent, get married. Bradley was wonderful, like a deep well of everything calm and steady, a solid rock.

He was what I needed and, therefore, who I wanted.

I open my mouth to answer him, to tell him that I didn't need to wait to be ready, that we could pick one of our apartments and load the other's worldly possessions in a cab and merge our existences in an afternoon. Tomorrow even, if he had some time off work.

But I cannot speak. I try, but my mouth feels bound, and the words don't come. I grab his arm and nod, hoping that, somehow, this primitive communication would send just as strong a signal of how I felt about him, about us, but my head is just as suddenly immobile, my neck frozen. So I scream at him with my eyes - yes, yes, yes - willing my body to respond to him, in any way at all, panicking as it remains impassive, heartless in its apathy, cruel.

He looks at me sadly, nodding his head in disappointed acceptance, Then he leans over and kisses me, once on the lips and again on the forehead. I catch the scent of skin again, but it is not his - it is the smell of summer rain and cut grass and clothes that have been lived in just a little too long, and as he pulls away, I am looking into bright green eyes and a mischievous smirk.

"I am yours," Puck says.

And I wake.

* * *

The morning is filled with breakfast (cereal, toast and not-very-good coffee, provided by the lovely owner of our B&B) and a walk around the neighborhood. It turns out that our cosy accommodations are minutes away from the town centre, which is full of charming shops and an open market of vendors selling anything from flowers and handicrafts to pastries and jam. I wish it were already mid-summer - I can imagine the vivid colors of stone fruit and berries being scooped and sold by the pound, and the bright scents of hand bouquets going for a song.

We stop at a stall selling silver jewelry, and I pick up a few pieces for Daphne and Red. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Puck run his fingers down the rows of silver rings, looking pensive. As I'd expected, last night's exchange has left no trace in the conversations of the new day; he is as vibrant as ever, although I notice that he doesn't touch me, not even to hold my arm as we weave through this market crowd the way he had through the one at Portobello Road.

We finally return to the B&B laden with trinkets, postcards and more pies and pasties than could feed a small army (snacks for the road, Puck says). With an hour to lunch with the Prince, I sort through the clothes in my suitcase, trying in vain to find something appropriate for an unplanned meal with royalty, while Puck sits on one of the beds, getting a headstart on his abundant travel rations.

"Wear something not battle-ish," he says unnecessarily, through a mouthful of pastry, and waves his hand with a flourish. "Remember, the point is not to scare him off."

"Thanks for the fashion advice, Foodface." I grumble.

"I'm just saying!" Crumbs fly. "If there's ever a time to look, you know, _good_ , it's now. Don't hold back."

I stop my excavation to look at him. "And what exactly am I supposed to be doing at this lunch, Puck? I'm getting bad vibes about this. Vibes involving dangerous ideas."

"You're worrying again. Relax! Look, I know this guy. He's competitive. Always has been. Wants whatever someone else has. So he knows that you're with me, and naturally, he'll want you. It's so obvious. You could see it in the way he was looking at you yesterday. Oh, wait, _you_ couldn't, because _you_ were vacationing on some planet in your head at the time. Anyway, he's so easy to read, it's stupid."

"So I _do_ have to be all come-hither! Unbelievable!"

Puck sighs. "Only if you want to, dunderhead. Look, Grimm. You don't have to _do_ anything, okay? Just turn up and look delicious. Even if you look like something the dog coughed up, he'd still try to get you, because you're mine, right? However, looking all yummy makes the game more fun for him, and he'll think that I'll be extra pissed for losing scrumptious you to desirable old him. What a clod! As if it would make a difference to me, seeing that I've known you when you were fifteen and all weird and zits and awkward and all. Anyway, here's the plan: he'll be all smarmy and think you've fallen for his charms and then his guard will be down and then you can get the elixir from him. It's classic. Works every time in the movies."

"I never had zits, which you'd know if you were actually around then instead of running off on your world adventures," I retort, still stunned both by the fact that he'd called me _his_ and the realization that I didn't actually mind it. "And anyway, you must watch all the wrong movies. In the ones I've seen, someone always ruins the plan by bursting through the door at the last minute. Like housekeeping. Or the bad guy sees through it from the start because it's so lame. Honestly, Puck, for a villain yourself, this isn't one of your more creative schemes. And sexist, besides!"

"Well, I'd go and bat my eyelashes at him myself - I mean, if we're talking about who's the more beautiful between us, there's no contest. But I don't think he swings that way. Plus, I don't have the curves, so I couldn't pull off a dress. Pun not intended. Oops."

"Damage done," I mutter, and pointedly turn my back on him.

I finally find a dress. It's cocktail-length - which is the only thing it has going for it - and more appropriate for an afternoon around town than luncheon with a head of state, but it will have to do. If I'd known this quest would be more flirting than fighting, I'd have gone shopping for all the prom specials at the mall before packing. I march off to the bathroom to do my makeover in peace. When I return, I close my suitcase and announce that I'm ready to check out.

Puck, who has been fiddling with his phone, trying to get it to work with the ostensibly inferior internet connection, looks up.

And slowly smiles.

"Now that," he says, "is what I'm talking about. Delicious."

"Excuse me?" It's so offensive and so _Puck_ that it's actually funny.

"He won't stand a chance," Puck continues, pleased and oblivious. "But you're missing one thing."

He stands, digs in his pocket and holds out a ring between thumb and forefinger. He takes my left hand and slips it onto my third finger, then lifts his gaze, eyes sparkling with satisfaction, to mine.

I can't breathe. I can't look away. His grin fades and once again, I am surprised at the emotion in his face as his eyes hold mine captive. He fights to stay serious, as if he is afraid and needs to spiral safely back into his status quo of manic lightness.

"I'm upping the stakes," he whispers, our eyes still locked. "You're my fiancée. I asked you to marry me today, and you said-"

"-yes." I finish.

The only sound in the room is our breathing. I don't care if we're pretending. I close my hand over his.

 _Don't leave again_ , I will him in my mind. _When this is over, please don't leave_.

He swallows and finally shifts his eyes away, down towards our hands. And he squeezes once, before letting go.

The moment is over. I exhale as if I have been drowning and finally reached the surface.

* * *

"Remember," Puck says as we stand in the lobby of the fancy hotel where the Prince is staying, "No need to do anything drastic. He'll try to reel you in simply to get to me. Once he's got you, unleash your full Queen of Sneaks on him, and get the elixir. Then let's get outta here and head to the Bahamas for a real holiday."

"Got it." In spite of my misgivings at being man-bait, I feel the thrill of the challenge. I haven't been sneaky in a long time, and I'm excited to see if I've still got it.

"Here he comes!" Puck hisses, and then grabs my waist, pulls me to him and touches his nose to my neck. Instinctively, I incline my head upwards, my breath hitching in my throat. I feel the warm slide of his skin along my cheek and then his lips are on my ear.

"Relax," he murmurs, sending my pulse skyrocketing. "And giggle."

When I'm about to get a heart attack? I don't think so. I manage a sigh instead.

"Even better." His lips smile against my skin.

I hear the sound of a throat being cleared. Puck pulls away, his hand finding mine on his chest and bringing it to his lips in one smooth move.

"Rhogin." He greets our host, glancing perfunctorily at him before looking back at me with a lazy smile.

"Should I come back later?" The Prince says, amused. "You seem occupied."

"Oh, did we make you uncomfortable?" Puck raises his eyebrow cockily. "I'm sorry! Sabrina and I just got engaged, and we were celebrating."

Rhogin's eyes dart to my ring, clearly visible on the hand Puck is holding. I marvel: either this is the cheesiest move ever, or the cleverest, because within seconds of meeting us, Rhogin knows exactly what the stakes are in this game.

And he falls for it. Even I can see it in the glint of his eyes now.

* * *

 **A/N 2: So, Bradley.**

 **Shall we talk about the epilogues in the book? I get the idea that everyone loathes them. When I first read Book 9, I felt like I had PTSD for days. No kidding. It's the Near-Miss Syndrome - you know, when someone almost does the wrong thing, or someone almost dies. But doesn't. And your heart is palpitating and you want to hyperventilate and scream and collapse and eat a lot of sugar just to feel yourself again.**

 **That was what the First Epilogue did to me. But - and you can go ahead and throw rotten fruit, if you like - I did not hate it. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time a book ending did that to me, it was that good. Plotwise, I mean (although, as long as we're talking plot, the Second Epilogue did somewhat redeem the First). It wasn't a happy ending up to that point, but those two lines, "No longer a boy. And he was beautiful." slew me. Absolutely slew me. It was a classic Near-Miss: charged, terrible, fraught. I could've written a thousand fanfics based on those lines alone. Which maybe this is one of.**

 **But back to Bradley. The poor, sweet man. My heart broke into a zillion pieces for him. He did not deserve that last-minute _doomed_ love triangle they cast him in. So I put him in my story. I won't tell you how it ends, but I like to think I gave him justice. **


	9. Chapter 8

We have lunch. Or, to be more precise, we eat finger food and pretend it's an actual meal. The Prince is a good conversationalist and he seems genuinely interested in what Puck's been up to since they last saw each other. Most of it is political, which they throw back and forth as comfortably as regular, non-royal guys might discuss basketball stats. There is definitely an undercurrent of attempted one-upmanship but it is so subtle that I wonder if I'd have noticed it if Puck hadn't cued me in to their history as childhood rivals. Both Rhogin and Puck do their best to include me in the conversation but even my famous fairytale ancestors have nothing on centuries of magical Everafter legacy and history. I know that this is just foreplay, a psychological set-up for the actual sneaky digging when it's just a dialog between the Goblin Prince and me.

Still, when Rhogin excuses himself to use the facilities and creates the perfect opportunity to shift scenes, I feel my stomach flutter.

"Okay, Grimm," Puck says in a low voice, the minute Rhogin is out of sight. "I'm going to disappear for a bit, and let you do your thing. Text me and meet me after."

"Just so you know, I still resent being used."

"Well, then, use him back!" Puck grins. "Best revenge ever."

It really is.

Still, I've never deliberately seduced anyone for information.

Okay, maybe seducing is the wrong word. Flirting, perhaps? I could do flirting. Maybe.

I'm still playing thesaurus when Rhogin returns, his eyebrow raised when he sees Puck's empty chair.

"Puck had to leave suddenly," I answer his unasked question. "A call from home. Faerie business. He conveys his deepest apologies."

"Ah. The curse of being Somebody in the kingdom: always needed for something or other. And invariably urgent."

"As _you_ would know, being Somebody in your own kingdom," I remark.

"As you yourself will be very soon, Miss Grimm -at least in Faerie." He hesitates, looking slightly disconcerted. "I don't mean to imply that you are a nobody now; you are a Grimm, which is a great responsibility in itself. And - if I understand correctly - fraught with enemies and all manner of resistance. I merely meant that sometimes being Somebody in a kingdom without actually having the authority to do as much good as one would like. . . let us say that it requires. . . a certain personality and grace. I can't vouch that I'm a particularly good candidate in that area."

Is he badmouthing his heritage? Fishing for sympathy? In spite of how Puck has set him up, this Prince doesn't strike me as the underhanded sort.

But Rhogin is speaking again, his face all smiles.

"But look what Puck has left me in his absence: your delightful company! You deserve congratulations on more than just your impending nuptials, by the way."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you've accomplished the impossible and turned boy into man. At least in body; it still remains to be seen if Puck's mental capacity is anything above a five year old's. Tell me - is he still as flatulent now?"

I cannot help rolling my eyes, but I answer, "Well, he is less annoying than when he was twelve."

"Ah, it is true, then, what they say - "love changeth a man for the better."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled with the compliment."

"And I'm sure he'll find something in it to be offended by." Rhogin grins.

"What is it with you boys, anyway? Is this all you princes do on your playdates - rag each other?"

Rhogin's grin widens into a full-out dimpled smirk. "Oh, he told you, did he? We were actually quite civil to each other back then. Our parents enforced it, of course, but we found enough in common to obey without much difficulty. It was our fathers who were really antagonistic - bull-headed and power-mad, they were. Puck and I used to eavesdrop on their "diplomatic discussions" (he makes air quotation marks with his fingers) and then act out our own disrespectful versions of them. Great fun."

"That sounds like Puck," I say, sighing.

"Truth be told, Sabrina, Oberon wasn't that bad. Had a good heart, although it didn't always come out of his mouth the right way. From what I heard, he only wanted the best for his kingdom. My father, on the other hand, is another story. It was always only about him. He's a - now, what was the term Puck used? Ah yes - "putrid sleaze bag". And our kingdom suffers because of it. We're ready for new leadership. Unfortunately, as you know, Everafters take forever to die of natural causes, if at all. Let's just say that at some point, if they're honest, everyone and their mothers wished he'd get overthrown."

He stops after his soliloquy to reach for his drink and, like a drowning man, I seize the line thrown at me.

"Even you?"

Rhogin pauses, suddenly wary.

Then he says, as carefully as he sets his glass down, "Everyone. At some point. If they're honest."

I lean back, unthreatening. "So why haven't you?"

"Because I'm his loving and dutiful son. And it would break his heart. Literally, not figuratively; he's not one for emotions. Not to mention the fact that I have a lot to lose if I don't succeed."

I'm not sure if he's being facetious. So I try another tack.

"Puck defied Oberon once - chose his freedom over his kingdom."

Rhogin's eyes narrow as he contemplates taking the bait. He says, disgustedly, "And look where that got him. Destitute and without honor. A beggar among humans."

"For a while," I concede. "And then he returned, found his father murdered, and became King. You never know how it'll turn out. Not that I'm encouraging treason in your case."

Rhogin is silent, thinking, his handsome features blank.

"And anyway, Puck had to resort to being fatally injured to weasel his way in by the back door," I add, watching Rhogin's expression. "I wouldn't recommend it unless you have a really high pain threshold. Better to go in with guns blazing."

The Prince laughs weakly, his features twisted in cynicism. "If only. Sadly, while there are ways to obtain weapons, one cannot as easily recruit soldiers, especially from one's own army."

"Mercenaries, then," I offer, as if we're strategizing a war and I'm his equal. "Surely it would be easy to find people who, as you said, honestly want the king overthrown."

"As astute as you are beautiful." Rhogin inclines his head and somehow manages to avoid sounding patronizing. "But quite uninformed in goblin politics. Understandably." He waves his hand - a concession. "It's complicated. The Goblin King controls his subjects. It's not just a matter of authority. It's magic and power; he _owns_ them. As long as they're alive, they cannot turn against him. They will die to protect him."

"Oh," I say, understanding at last Knobloch's comment that Rhogin wanted to raise an undead army. I choose my next words and tone carefully. "It sounds like you'll need a bunch of _dead_ guys, then. And last I heard, Walmart doesn't have them in stock. Pity you don't have a zombie potion or something - you could set up a recruiting tent at the local graveyard."

I give him a sincerely sympathetic look and turn my attention to the crackers, picking one topped with salmon, dill and capers. In the silence between us, the crunching of my teeth reverberates in my head. I wait.

 _Take the bait take the bait take the bait_. . .

He stands abruptly.

"Sabrina Grimm, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to my room?"

I feign surprise.

He mistakes this for suspicion and discomfort, as I'd hoped, and stammers quickly, "I don't mean to . . . forgive me for causing you . . . I mean to say that . . . I assure you that my intentions are completely honorable. I only wanted to continue this conversation in private. I have something . . . interesting. . . but it would not do to be overheard, even accidentally."

His genuine awkwardness is surprisingly endearing, as is the excitement that shines in his eyes. Rhogin is naturally handsome, but in that moment, the aloofness from his good breeding falls away and he is absolutely disarming. I say yes a little too easily and am glad Puck isn't around to see it. I'd hear no end of it for weeks.

We walk, my hand on the arm he's offered me, to the elevator. Inside, I am conscious of how close we are standing. How is it that goblin royalty, if this prince is any indication, are drop-dead gorgeous while their subjects are bulbous-headed and spindly-armed? Are they even the same species? I make a mental note to ask Puck later.

"Prince Rhogin," I begin, but he interrupts.

"Just 'Rhogin', please." He turns and smiles, and I only barely resist the urge to start fangirling. "No titles between us. Especially since you yourself are going to be Queen of Faerie before long. Have you and Puck set a date, incidentally?"

My fangirling urges suffer a sudden and violent death.

I mutter something about "next spring" as the elevator door opens. We walk along the hallway to his door and he lets us into his lavish suite. Which is nothing like the one Puck and I had spent the night in.

Rhogin suddenly looks horrified and flustered. "Oh! How remiss of me! I was so excited about bringing you here that I failed to notice if you were finished with your meal downstairs! I shall have the staff bring up more food to my room immediately."

"No, I was done, but thank you. I'm not hungry. I'm actually more curious about what you wanted to keep talking about."

"Ah, yes. Well, it's a secret. But it's a fabulous one, one that will impress even Puck. And he's not easy to impress, let me tell you. We made a game of it when we were younger, always trying to outdo each other - tricks and skills and dares and things like that. Children's play. But this! This will positively will blow his mind."

"If you're anything like Puck, it's probably something so bizarre that only you two would think is cool." I say, deliberately skeptical. "Not to be disrespectful, Your Highness, but Puck has very weird ideas of what's impressive."

"Well, there's nothing weird about his taste in women," he returns, charming as ever. "If the code of chivalry did not forbid it, I would be moved to challenge him for you."

"Please," I say, rolling my eyes. "That's ridiculous. And old fashioned. Not to mention insulting. Who does that anymore? Does the woman not get a say?"

" _That_ , sweet lady, is what the code of chivalry forbids. Not the fighting, but the flagrant disregard for the lady's opinion in the matter. She is free to choose, and woe betide the man -royal or commoner - who denies her that."

He's good, I'll grant that. Note to self: stop swooning.

"But I digress." He continues, switching smoothly from impassioned advocate of women's rights to deliciously fidgety secret-keeper.

Did I think _delicious_? I meant distracted. Yes - distracted.

"What would you say if I told you that I do, indeed, have in my possession -" he pauses for dramatic effect, biting his lower lip in his excitement, "- a zombie potion, as you call it?"

I fight to contain my own excitement. All I can think of is Briar, in Uncle Jake's arms. Alive. Smiling. Laughing. It is so close. I want it so badly but I must throw on a pall of disbelief before my face betrays me.

So I laugh. It is a relief to let it out.

"Rhogin!" I say, when I have reined it all back in. "You're delightful. You've definitely won. None of Puck's pranks comes even close. I'll have to tell him. He'll demand a rematch, of course, but you've won, fair and square."

Rhogin's face is at once offended and smug, if even possible. His expression is in the process of morphing fluidly between the two as I look at him.

"Sabrina," he says at last. "I am gratified that you think I've scored against your fiance, because it proves me right - he will indeed be impressed. But I am deadly serious, if you'll pardon the pun. It is no joke. I have an elixir that raises the dead."

I let my mirth dissolve into amazement, furrowed brow and all, as I play the role for him.

"Seriously? No. That's impossible. Nobody can raise the dead. Prolong life, extend youth - yes; I've seen those. We might even have some of those life energy drinks in my Grandmother's stash. But return life to someone who's died? No way. Once you're gone, you're gone."

Rhogin remains silent, smiling and triumphant.

"Listen, you smug cow -" I am shocked at how much liberty I'm willing to take with the Prince of Goblins just to be the devil's advocate which, I'm hoping, will support my act - "I don't believe you for a moment. But let's say that this amazing elixir does exist. How is it that no one's heard of it before? I mean, why haven't we heard of people being resurrected? Maybe not in human history because we're suckers for realism and reject anything that Science can't prove. But among Everafters? You'd think there'd be at least one resurrection in the Everafter history books."

"There's very little of it." Rhogin speaks again of the elixir. "And it's not been used yet on anyone dead."

"Convenient." I cross my arms over my chest. "How do you know it works? Or, even better: how do you know it isn't just some fruit juice someone stuck in a fancy vial? I'm assuming the vial is fancy, and not some old jar or pot."

"So cynical." Rhogin smirks, looking remarkably like a dark-haired Puck. "I'm surprised, considering how much contact you've had with Everafters and magic. And considering that you're engaged to a very magical being, who flies and morphs into different creatures."

"We're not talking about pixie dust and spells, Rhogin. We're talking about death. There isn't magic strong enough to stop it happening when it's … when it's a . . . a done deal, let alone reverse it!"

I'm suddenly aware that I'm angry again, that my fists are clenched under my armpits, fingernails digging into my palms. I'm angry for Briar, and Grandpa Basil, and Mr. Seven, and all the good people who died in the war, whose loss was senseless and brutal, and for whom I am still mourning. I don't know when I'd moved from acting to arguing for real, when this stopped being a game and became accidental catharsis. I feel tears on my face that I don't remember crying.

Rhogin must have sensed it, too, because he closes the gap between us and takes me in his arms. I push against him, momentarily shocked at his intuition, and affronted that he should feel so free to demonstrate it, but he holds me firmly.

"Sabrina. I'm sorry; I didn't know." His voice is a rumble in his chest as I eventually surrender my feeble resistance and collapse against him. I feel his hand on my hair and back, gently soothing, saying nothing more. I squeeze my eyes to shut in the tears and shut out the memories.

And I shouldn't, but I let myself breathe in his scent. I am vulnerable, I tell myself through the fog of dark emotion that clouds my better judgement. I will regret this later when I am psychologically sober, but right now, I am mentally unsound and in the arms of a man who knows how to hold a woman when she is broken.

And he holds me until sanity returns.

I am the one to pull away, his arms loosening as I put mine in the space opening between us. I scrub my face more viciously than is ladylike.

"I am aghast to have been the cause of your distress, " he says quietly. "I am truly sorry."

"I don't know what came over me," I say, my voice still wavering from my cry. "And how could you have known? Don't be silly."

We stand there, inches apart, neither moving.

"You've lost someone," he offers.

"Who hasn't?" I shoot back, and I regret my tone; I hadn't meant to sound defensive. And I'm annoyed at how easily I've abandoned my mission and become such a _girl_. "Can . . . can we go back to before I wigged out? We were talking about your unbelievably wonderful potion."

"Are you sure?" Rhogin is sincerely concerned. "We don't have to. We could talk about other, more pleasant things. Or eat? Or . . ."

"I'm fine." I look around for something to blow my nose on, and Rhogin's handkerchief is immediately in my field of vision.

"Unless," I trumpet into the fine linen, my wits slowly returning, "You're trying to avoid the debate you knew you were losing?"

The Prince's smile transforms his worried face and he narrows his eyes at me. "That's not how I remembered it!"

I manage a smile that barely matches his. "Alright, Sir Prince. You have a potion that's never been tested and that you claim does something impossible. Come on - I know scam artists with a better pitch than that."

His smile widens as he keeps my gaze.

"I didn't say it's never been tested. I said it's never been used on any _one_."

Oh, heavens. He's been resurrecting animals.

"Goblins," he reveals, his face serious now. "Two. One killed in a recent brawl in the town, and the other I dug out of an unmarked grave, been dead for years."

The fact that it's a success story is overshadowed by the horror that he dragged a long-dead goblin back into a world he did not belong in. And because I am tactless in my respect for human (or creature) decency, I tell him so.

"Yes, that was not one of my best decisions," he admits ruefully. "The first one - the brawl victim - turned out alright, although he disappeared into the woodwork before I could really question him to find out how it all worked. The one I exhumed, on the other hand . . . he was quite disoriented. I suspect he wasn't quite . . . adequately animated; on hindsight, I think the elixir works best on the more recently deceased. Anyway, he unwittingly stepped in front of a galloping horse not long after." Rhogin grimaces. "I. . . er . . . put him back in his old grave."

I shudder. It's so much like something Puck would do that it's almost funny. Almost.

"That's demented on so many levels. More, if it were true," I say.

"I'm not making it up."

"Prove it, then."

He hesitates.

"I can't. I don't have the elixir with me. You don't imagine I'd be traveling with it in my shaving kit, surely? It's far too valuable!"

"Well, where is it, then?" I am careful to sound exasperated rather than greedy.

"Back at the palace."

"Ah, the royal treasury. Next to the Magical Hair Restoration Lotion and right behind the Dream Riches Powder. Does the King sprinkle it liberally on his preferred dead, too? Straight out of the bottle? Oh, I mean vial."

 _Keep it flippant, Sabrina. Sound casual and sarcastic. Be unthreatening. Ignore the fact that your world, along with your hopes, has just come crashing down at your feet._

"You mock me." He is in admirably good humor. "And no, _the King_ does not. He is not even aware of it."

"Clearly. Or he would've locked you up, having deduced your plot to get rid of him."

"He could not have. It is my mother's intellect that I have inherited, not his. Although, thankfully, not her carelessness as well. The elixir was hers; I stole it."

"Is thievery acceptable in royal families, then? I was under the impression that it was punishable by death or amputation or something equally painful."

He snorts. "Only if you are discovered. And only if you are a peasant. My mother doesn't even realize what this elixir can do. She thought it was an eternal youth potion when she looted it from some soldier years ago. But I heard rumors about it when I was researching a way to end my father's tyranny, about what it was really capable of."

"So you claimed it. And now you're going to do a Frankenstein and raise an undead army."

"A what?"

"Never mind. No doubt he and his patchwork friend are in an alternate Everafter universe somewhere, anyway, terrorizing their unlucky humans."

"Who?"

"Never mind that, either. So, when are you going to put your fun plan into action?"

Suddenly, Rhogin looks uneasy and I am afraid I may have gone too far. I must do some quick damage control.

"Oh, I'm not interested in goblin politics," I say, as airily as I can. "The thing is, I'm going to marry the King of Faerie, and it would stink if our kingdom were in danger in any way from your zombie resistance fighters. I mean, how do I know you're not going to pull a prank on Puck at some point in our future and spring a surprise attack?"

It is so lame that I am afraid I have lost all credibility - albeit tremulous - with that one story.

But Rhogin is amused.

"I give you my word that I am not interested in attacking Faerie with goblins, dead or alive. In fact, it will be tricky just to find a dead army, raise them and control them. I'll have to find their captain, which, you can imagine, will not be easy, seeing that all bones look the same. You see, I was too hasty with my experiments; now the remaining elixir is only enough to raise perhaps one more life and I have to make it count. Fortunately, I'm relatively sure from my research, that if I can raise the captain, _he_ will raise _his_ soldiers and they will obey him. And I, in turn, can command them through him."

Ludicrous.

But not to Rhogin, if the determination on his face is any indication.

"Just the captain?" I decide again to be flippant. "Not aiming any higher, for … I dunno… a colonel or a general?"

"In our military defences, the king is the general and commander. The next rank below him are the captains, and they each command an entire army. The king doesn't like too many chains of command below him. It slows things down when you want to brainwash entire legions of warriors to do your bidding."

I'd forgotten that Everafter armies are far less structured than mortal ones because their modus operandi involve a lot more brute force annihilation than military cunning and strategy.

"Besides," the Prince adds gently, his eyes softening, "I would never hurt you."

"Rhogin," I breathe, my heart wrenched, yet pounding, "I am engaged."

"A fact that I am reminded of continually as we linger here." He sighs. "Perhaps this is a good time to say goodbye. People will start to talk if I am in here too long with another man's betrothed."

I hate myself for feeling anything except relief that the assignment is over.

"You know," he muses, as he walks me to the door. "In all our friendly competitions - most of which I won, incidentally - I always thought that Puck didn't care to try hard enough. And that's why he lost."

I don't think that's how Puck would see it, but I let him go on.

"For him, it was never the winning. It was always only the thrill of the game. Perhaps he already had so much that there was very little left out there that he'd consider giving everything up for. Because that's what it takes to win -" he lifts my hand to his lips, "- giving everything else up."

All these nuances. I think he is referring to his political agendas and necrological experiments but as I glance at his eyes, there is an intensity in them that is tempered regret.

"Thank you for being kind," I finally say.

He replies, "Puck won this round, hands down."


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: One of my favorite chapters - food, action, bickering and some fluff. Enjoy, and leave a comment if you did!**

* * *

Following the instructions in his text, I meet Puck at the park a block away from Rhogin's fancy hotel. He is sitting on the ground, leaning against the bowl under a statue of a winged boy spitting water. I am amused at the irony. His hair is misted with spray that he doesn't seem to notice.

"Well?" He says when he sees me.

"Well, what?" I stare down at him as he gazes expectantly up with all the trust of a little boy waiting to be told his plans have been a rousing success.

"Did you wrest it from his eager fingers in exchange for the promise of a kiss?"

"A kiss? You filthy swine. I seem to recall the terms of this mission being something like, 'I won't let him lay a finger on you.' "

"I'm quite sure kissing can be performed quite satisfactorily without fingers."

"And how would you know?"

"Secret." His mouth curves almost imperceptibly, his eyes challenging. He finally rises, not bothering to dust off his clothes. Miraculously, he has managed to have sat in the only spot on the ground not decorated by the birds.

"So, where's the potion?"

"Elixir," I correct tiredly. "And I don't have it. Rhogin didn't bring it with him."

"Oh, so we're on first-name basis now."

"Yes, we are, Puck. Because calling him 'Your Royal Constipatedness' wouldn't have added much to the romantic mood! Which, if I remember, _you_ told me to create!"

Puck is silent for a nanosecond. Then he inhales.

"You fell for him."

"What?"

"Oh. My. Word. You actually fell for him." His face is a picture - and the colors are smeared from wicked delight to simmering anger.

"I did not! He. . . I . . . there's a captain of the . . . there's only enough . . ." I start babbling facts to distract from emotion.

Puck interrupts, his hand suddenly on my chin.

"You've been crying." He is wary. "Did something happen? What did he do to you?! Did he touch you?!"

"No! Nothing! I broke down and was a basket case, okay?"

"Did. He. Touch. You?" Puck's words whistle through clenched teeth.

'Not in that way, idiot! He held me while I was crying! It was a kind thing to do!"

"You let him touch you. Argh." My face is suddenly free from his fingers as he runs them through his hair. "And you fell for him. I should've warned you. Why didn't I warn you? Ergghh!"

"What is going on? Puck, you'd better start talking or I'm going to punch you. Hard. Right now. Right here. On every single part of you that I can reach."

Puck spins, his back to me. When he speaks, his voice is almost bored.

"Goblins. They manipulate everyone, right? All they need to do is touch you in . . . in . . . well, like when you're vulnerable or when your defences are down or crud like that, and BAM! You're under their power. Goblin royalty are especially potent because of all that pure bloodline crap. Gurdach, for instance, controls his entire kingdom because they were stupid enough in the beginning to adore him. Idiots, all of them. And while they were all starry-eyed and soft-hearted - yes, Grimm, shut up; goblins, like fairies, have feelings - he took their minds. So now he owns them. Rhogin, that lowlife piece of trash, isn't as strong as his father - yet - but he has a pretty impressive track record himself. Why on earth were you crying, anyway?"

The sudden change of subject throws me off momentarily. Then I refocus on Puck's green eyes boring into me as he waits for an answer.

"I dunno. He was talking about death and the power of the elixir and I thought it was all bosh and I told him it wasn't funny because I was thinking of Briar, you know? And Seven, and. . . Granny. . . and then I was crying and I didn't even realize it. But I was angry, Puck! I wasn't all weak and grief and sadness, okay? I was _mad_! Mad that he thought he. . . he. . . had all this _power_ over death when I couldn't . . . when no one we knew could bring back Briar."

Even now, I feel the stirrings of that same anger in the hotel room, spectral wisps of the original explosion.

"And you have feelings for him?"

"Why the third degree? Is it a crime that I find him . . . pleasant, and extremely easy on the eye? Please don't pretend you're jealous. We're only fake-engaged, in case you forgot! Just acting!"

Puck's face is stone. I have struck a nerve. Which nerve, exactly, is anyone's guess. He closes his eyes, turns away and breathes in and out several times, noisily.

"Right. We are," he flatly intones, barking out his next words like a military commander laying out battle plans to a doomed army. "That's not the point. The point is that he's now in your head. Which makes it harder for us to use him in the future to get the elixir. Your loyalties are in the wrong camp now. You're compromised; unsafe."

"Well, you could've told me before you sent me in blind! How hard would it have been: 'Sabrina, don't get vulnerable! Don't let him hold you! Just tease him! But carefully! Because he's actually a snake in disguise and so poisonous that people hand over their souls to him after looking in his eyes!' I can't believe you did that!"

I am angry again, and my head is throbbing with it.

"How was I supposed to know that would happen?" Puck spits out. "You were supposed to reel _him_ in, not the other way around!"

"And I was doing fine until he did his pheremone thing on me! Which I'd have been prepared for if someone had had the brains to tell me about!"

"If you'd known, you'd have your guard up and he'd have seen through it right away! And we'd have wasted all this time setting him up for nothing!"

"So you admit that you deliberately withheld pertinent information to save your own butt! And, thanks to your incredible stupidity and shortsightedness, I'm now poisoned. I have _goblin poison_ in my _head_! In a critical moment in battle, I'm going to betray you to the enemy."

"Overreacting! And the _real_ point is _I_ don't need _my_ butt saving. So, irrelevant."

We fall silent and face each other, breathing heavily. Our roundabout exchange has unexpectedly defused my fury and even Puck is now strangely calm as he continues.

"You're not going to be a traitor and there is no battle. Which is a pity because a battle _would've_ been awesome! Sadly, we still failed to get the elixir so we're going to have to postpone the Bahamas." He sighs despondently and dramatically.

"But we know that Rhogin has it in his palace. I found out that much," I offer.

"And detour to Florida!" Puck recovers joyfully. "I've always wanted to try that Buzz Lightyear ride!"

"Infant." I roll my eyes, not completely immune to the charm that is Puck once again in good humor.

"I'm famished." He ignores me. "I was never a fan of finger food or whatever crap it was that Rhogin called lunch."

"Insubstantial?"

"Pretentious! And Prince Silverspoon's _gourmet_ offering was especially pathetic." He shudders. "Brings back bad memories of dinner parties in Faerie where I was forced to mingle with Important People. All I wanted to do was chuck oysters at them. Let's go get some real food! I know a place!"

He grabs my hand and locks it in the crook of his arm. "Let me show you how _real_ royalty eat!"

Manic Puck is a migraine disguised as golden curls, but it is sunshine after the toxic downpour of abject failure, and I don't begrudge it in the least. I lean into him and smile.

"By the way," he finishes, without turning his head to look at me. "If you think _that's_ pheremones, you ain't seen nothin'."

* * *

We are seated in a booth in _Die Alte Dame_ , the restaurant that Puck has chosen. It has a distinctly German feel to it: bright reds, yellows and white against dark wooden panels and, from the menu, the promise of a mind-boggling assortment of ales and beers. Puck has been watching me, an almost-smirk on his face. His eyes are golden as they catch the light from the hanging lamps.

"What?" I ask. I appreciate that, in spite of the festive air, the booth makes it easy to be heard without shouting.

"Nothing." He looks innocent. "We should order."

We do. The server leaves with our requests - German pancakes for me, and spaghetti for Puck.

In the minutes before our food arrives, he is still smiling, looking like he would burst from keeping a secret. Suddenly, he slides next to me on my side of the booth and puts his hands over my eyes.

"What are you doing?" I gasp.

"Shhh. Waitwait. . . okay!"

I look.

My jaw drops.

Puck bursts into a full-throated laugh.

"Oh, your face!" He gasps between guffaws.

I swear I have not seen true mirth until this moment. It strikes me that his title of Trickster King is well-deserved.

My pancakes are _pink_. The little jug of syrup next to them is filled almost to the brim with a glistening liquid, also pink.

Puck's spaghetti sauce is _green_.

For a moment, I am speechless. I can still feel the laughter shaking Puck's body beside me.

Then, suddenly and all at once, the first emotion hits me - _I miss her._

I feel it behind my eyes and in the tightness of my throat. My hands fly to my mouth, as if by holding in the sob that threatens to burst out, I can also hold in the ache of no longer having her.

Puck has finally stopped chuckling long enough to look at me, his glee changing to something else as he takes in my expression. I expect scorn but see, instead, wistfulness. I feel his hand on my head, and he pulls me against him, his cheek on my hair.

He doesn't speak, but his fingers find mine. For a while, I let the tears come; after years of repressing it, the wave of sorrow is a deluge and I am relieved to surrender to it. Then the wave recedes and I slowly become aware of everything else around me - the hum of noise from the other patrons, the hardness of the bench beneath me, my body twisted against Puck's, one hand in his and the other fisted against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp and crumpled after my outburst.

As if he feels me shift, he clears his throat quietly and murmurs, "Yeah, I missed her cooking that much, too."

I look up at him, and he smiles crookedly back, offering me one of the napkins from the table.

"How did you find this place?" I ask, when at last I can speak.

"I opened it." He says, his eyes searching the crowd.

When it sinks in, I burst out, "You _own_ this?"

"Yep." Over my head, he catches the eye of the serving staff. Our server hurries over immediately.

"Your Majesty?"

"Hyacinth, coffee, please."

"At once, Sire." She disappears.

"Yeah, I own this place. And another in Manhattan. People love the food. Rave reviews all the time."

Now that he mentions it, I do remember hearing about the New York restaurant - the critics made it sound like a gastronomical paradigm shift. And now, of course, its name makes perfect sense- _Die Alte Dame: The Old Lady._

"When?"

"When did I open it?" Puck leans back, his arm still around me. I am acutely aware of it, but I don't want to move; it's a good place to be at the moment. "Two years ago - I started the one back home first, and when it did well, I opened this one. Personally fine-tuned all the recipes, by the way. 'Old classics done weird' is generally what the critics call them, but there's nothing weird about them. Wait till you try the desserts. Anyway, they're comfort food for us, aren't they? I eat at the one back home all the time. Especially when. . . anyway, the old lady would be so proud."

"Yes, she would." I marvel at the light in Puck's eyes. This is his tribute to someone who had been kind to him at a time when he had no one. He'd never said as much, but he'd always loved her. This restaurant is as sentimental as he'll ever get.

I see our server approach our table, bringing our coffee. In spite of it being the wrong part of the meal for coffee, it's exactly what I need after crying my eyes out. I hope the coffee is decent because there is nothing worse than horrible coffee after a good cry. And it's surprising how easy it is to get appalling coffee even in fancy restaurants. In my ideal world, all coffee would be served black with a generous drizzle of caramel, the way I always drink it when I make it at home. But here I am, in the middle of the rest of the world and I can only hope for so much. Besides, my thoughts are arrested by the idea that Puck would know to order coffee. It is baffling to me, and somewhat suspicious, as if in the years he'd been gone from my life, he was off doing more than just growing up.

Puck gestures in my direction and the server sets the coffee down in front of me, turning the saucer so the handle of the cup is on my right. She does a quick bow and moves off, and my eyes follow her for a while. Then I look down.

The spoon is dipped in caramel, resting in its own little spoon rest beside the cup.

My mouth gapes. I can't help it. I stare at the server's retreating back and then at Puck. His smile is warm and affectionate.

"You still like it with caramel, don't you?" He says. "You always did, anyway. Especially after leaking your entire brain out through your nose."

As I continue to stare at him, he shakes his head. "You're welcome, idiot." Then he slides back into his seat across me, and digs into his pasta.

"Eat." He waves his fork at me. "It's not getting any hotter sitting there."

I feel as if this means something but I don't want to ask. So, instead, I eat my pancakes, now lukewarm. As with my first glance at them, my first bite returns me to the kitchen in Granny's house in Ferryport Landing. I close my eyes and savor the gift of that memory. It's funny how I was always a little leery of her unconventional food presentations but now I welcome them for this brief, guilty moment in which I allow myself a hiatus from the present to soak in the past.

Puck watches me as he eats, and tries not to look smug that I am clearly enjoying the food. He pushes his own plate towards me.

"Try," he orders.

I cut one of his meatballs with my fork and spear it atop a roll of noodles.

"I'd offer you my pancakes in return but I think you already know how they taste, seeing as it's your recipe," I say before closing my mouth around the forkful.

"That's beside the point," Puck replies as he snatches the last bit of my pancake and dunks it directly in the little pitcher of syrup . "It's always polite to share."

"And what would you know about polite?" I return.

"Excuse me? Did you see me eating with my hands? Did you see me pulling rank here even though (a) I'm the owner and (b) I'm _King_ and (c) I'm awesome?" He is completely serious as he counts off on his fingers, but I'm grinning.

The rest of the meal is light and silly, and I settle into our comfortable pattern of teasing banter and talking about old times. I notice that he avoids mentioning the years he was away, or the fallout we had. Anyone listening in would imagine that we are old friends, even cousins, rather than two people supposedly in love once but now in denial that it had all gone so sour that we are pretending it had never happened. Puck orders his own coffee - with a stick of cinnamon and nutmeg - and the server returns to top up mine, bringing with her an enormous trifle to share.

"Granny never made trifle," I remark in surprise, to which Puck pooh-poohs.

"Not for you, she didn't. She made it for me all the time, and she put these little sweet eggs in it."

I look, and there are hard-boiled quail's eggs in the jelly layer. It feels good to laugh.

* * *

Some time later, stuffed and contented, we drive away from _Die Alte Dame_ down the open country road back towards the city. I've kicked off my shoes and am curled up in the passenger seat under my coat, warm and oddly happy. Outside the sky is dark and we pass mile after mile without street lamps.

"I'm assuming you know where we're going?" I turn to Puck.

"Duh. We're driving back to London. This time we're getting a nice hotel, not a dump like the other one."

"Well, _you_ chose the dump."

"Only because it was the first one I found after you'd passed out like a sloth. I really didn't care for driving around looking for a place to crash when I didn't even know if you were dead or alive. What was that all about, anyway? That was so wimpy. The Grimm I know isn't one of those useless females with the -what is it - delicate constitutions. You're not sick, are you?"

"Of course not. I was just tired - jet lag and traveling and chasing princes and everything."

"Hmph."

I look down at my hands and suddenly realize I am still wearing the ring. I pull it off and hold it out to Puck. He sees the movement and takes his eyes off the road for a second.

"Here," I say. "I should probably give this back. I think it helped with my cover. Rhogin kept looking at it and sulking."

"He would; covetous pig." Puck returns his attention to his driving. "By the way, you did good, Grimm; sounds like he totally fell for it. But I don't want the ring back. What would I do with it? It's not like it'd fit me. Keep it. Wear it."

"I guess. After all, if we're hunting him down in Florida, I'll have to keep up with the charade, right?"

Puck smiles crookedly. "Well, that, too."

I turn back to the road, just in time to see a shadow moving quickly in front of the car.

"Holy- !" Puck exclaims and swerves the car. We skid as the brakes engage, still moving forwards, and the car lurches, turns, and careens off the road. A great dark shape looms ahead of us, growing rapidly in size.

A tree.

We slam into it and I am jerked forward, the seat belt cutting into my body while my face is suddenly enveloped in the airbag. Warning sounds go off, very loud in the confines of the car. A single, lucid thought enters my mind - _this is an accident_ \- before everything is confused and surreal.

For a moment, I sit there, trying to gather myself. Then, loud knocks and crashes sound above the alarms. Dark shadows swarm around the car. I hear the screech of metal on metal and the roof shudders.

The glass of the windows shatters. Limbs reach in for us.

Fingers close around the air just inches from my skin.

My next thought amuses me: why didn't I bother to change out of my useless dress? It's not going to be pleasant fighting in it.

Because it sure looks like a fight is about to happen.

Puck swears colorfully.

"I think we're being robbed," I say, trying to dodge the fingers. I notice they are spindly; not at all human.

"If only," Puck mutters back. "This is retaliation."

And before I can ask more, he shifts the seat back, draws his legs awkwardly up from the pedals, twists and kicks his door out. Something living grunts as the door makes contact with it, shooting out into the darkness.

"I'm going to draw them away! Hide!" He shouts as he ducks and propels himself head first out through the opening. I expect to hear him hit the ground but with a familiar whoosh, he is up in the air, a dark silhouette against the sky.

 _Draw who away?_ I ask silently, as I peer out through the window. I see slight, dark shadows running away from the car, following Puck. But I also hear other noises that tell me not everyone has taken the bait. I am going to ignore Puck's advice. He must be stupid to think I'd sit and wait out the action. My door is jammed, so I climb out the same way that Puck exited the car, although with less panache. I keep my back against the side of the car, even though I know I could just as easily be conked on the head from rooftop assailants as attacked from the front. I am in the worst possible outfit for battle - barefoot and in a short dress. I guess I'm going to have to choose my life over my modesty.

For a moment, nothing happens. My eyes are slowly growing accustomed to the darkness, but it is still hard to make anything out where the headlamps do not shine.

Then - hissing, close enough that I hear it over the car alarm.

Just before something hits me from the side and I fall. I feel pain streak across my neck and I catch the glint of flashing eyes. Instinctively, I roll and punch, and my fist catches something cool and solid. I struggle to my feet as quickly as I can.

On the ground before me is a huddled shape. It stirs and rises. And stands still just long enough for me to recognize the misshapen humanoid body.

Goblin.

It lunges.

This time I see it, and I step aside and bring my fists down together on its shoulder. It staggers and holds out a knife - I see the glint of metal - and slashes at me. With not enough distance between us to twist away, I feel a burning in my side as the knife connects. I don't know how deep it's gone. I fight down the rising panic and deliver a downward kick to the creature's legs. There is a sickening crack as it rebounds and falls to the ground. I run to it and kick it some more, for good measure, then punch it in the face. It does not move again.

I rip the knife out of its hand, and turn around, watching for others. I am starkly aware of how vulnerable I am from behind but I cannot hear anything above my own ragged breathing. I shift quickly, turning a semicircle in erratic jerks, expecting to be hit from all directions.

Instead, a shadow drops down from the tree above. I see it out of the corner of my eye as I turn, a second too late. I feel my head snap back as my hair is grabbed. I lose my balance and fall, the stars rising above me as I land on my back.

"He killed my family." The hiss is right in my ear, although I can barely understand it through the pain in my scalp. "Now I'll kill his."

The months I spent in orphanages and foster homes are something I never want to relive, but I did learn some of my most useful self-defense maneuvers there, even more so than in the war. The kids I lived with may not have been skilled at weaponry, but some of them were the kind of bullies that snuck up on you from behind and laid you on the floor before you could blink. Hair-pulling was a popular move against girls and Daphne and I often had to fight on our backs while our scalps were on fire. If we didn't, we'd lose more than just face.

I grit my teeth as I drop my knife, pushing myself into a backward roll with my palms. I brace myself for the extra tension on my scalp as my body moves upwards. I crash down as hard as I can on the goblin holding me and feel its grip loosen. It grunts as I roll off to the side, scrabbling in the grass for the knife. Thankfully, I find it quickly, even in my disorientation. But even as I rise to my feet, I am knocked backwards, with the goblin around my middle. I feel a tight squeeze on the soft flesh under my ribs and then sharp pain. I stab frantically at it, praying I don't miss and cut into myself instead.

I yank the knife out and stab again and again. The goblin howls and releases me. I back-crawl until I am far enough away to see all of it. It rises unsteadily, holding its side, and hisses. It stumbles towards me, coming into the pale moonlight that pools on the grass between the cover of the trees. Its bared teeth are slick with blood - it must have bitten me - and its yellow eyes gleam. It is dressed in an outfit that looks familiar.

I recognize him - Knobloch, the knife vendor from Portobello Road.

And I suddenly understand what Puck meant by _retaliation_.

In a fit of desperate insanity, I consider reasoning with him: his problem is with the King of Faerie, I am nobody in their feud, I'd never met him until that day, I certainly didn't kill anyone he knew etc. etc. I have another sudden misplaced thought: Daphne would be proud of me trying to use my words instead of my fists for once. In spite of everything going on around me, I grin.

But the look in his eyes returns me to the gravity of the situation. He inclines his head and makes an odd, screeching sound. Immediately, other shadows fall from above into the dim light. My heart sinks: with the knife, I can possibly take him on, even though I am injured, but I am clearly outnumbered by these reinforcements.

Knobloch jeers. "I wanted to be th' one to tear your throat out. But I think you'll scream louder this way. And I want him to hear."

I barely register this before I see them all leap. In that moment, I know I am going to die. All my training goes out the window as I close my eyes and wait for the impact.

It doesn't come.

There is sound all around me, but it is a dull roar, as if I am hearing underwater.

I open my eyes in time to see a blur of motion, sweeping low over the ground into the ranks of the goblins and then something shoots almost vertically into the sky. It happens so fast that the sound is stolen away with the flight, leaving an abrupt silence in its wake. My mouth is agape as I realize that I am suddenly alone.

Then I hear noises again, from far away. When I try to locate them, I think they are from high up in the air. But they do not sound like birds. They are getting louder and nearer.

Screams.

When they are close enough for me to tell they are not human, I see them: dark shapes falling out of the clouds, limbs flailing, hitting the open ground where there are no trees.

I count nine thuds.

And then there is silence again.

I am as cold as ice. My knees give way just as Puck lands beside me.

"Whoa, Grimm," he says as he catches me. "It's okay. It's over. They're all dead."

"I had it covered." I try to sound nonchalant. After all, I've fought in a war against much worse. But I feel sticky with oozing things, and I am light-headed, and trembling with the effort of staying upright.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just a scratch."

Puck's arms are around me, holding me up, carrying me to where the light shines from the car's dying headlamps. The alarm is silenced, although I don't remember when it happened. He gently pries my fingers away from the knife where I have clamped them, and it falls to the grass. Then I feel his hands all over me, carefully examining, and I hear his quiet curses as his fingers come away viscid.

"We have to get you someplace safe," he says at last, and I can hear the worry in his voice.

"Please." I sigh. "I just need a shower and some Band-aids."

"You need more than that, Sabrina. Can you walk?"

I snort, but it comes out as a gasp. " 'Course! No. I don't know. I hate that you had to save me again."

He holds me up as I lean against him. It is testament to the seriousness of my injuries that he doesn't mouth off a comeback.

"Did you kill them? All of them?" I ask into his shirt.

"Well, technically, the ground did. I simply lost my grip while we were taking a ride. Oops - butterfingers!"

"Did you see who they were?"

"Uh, no, we didn't take the time to introduce ourselves. They were too busy screaming and I was more interested in stopping them from killing you."

"One of them was that knife seller from the market," I inform him.

I feel Puck tense against me. Then he pulls me away from him and holds me at arm's length. Without another word, he bends down, picks up the knife and stares at it.

"Where'd you get this knife?" He asks.

"I killed one of the goblins after he slashed me with it. Then I took his knife. And stabbed that other goblin."

"Not good. Not good. We have to go now."

"Why?" For some reason, I feel floaty. I hear my speech slurring as if my tongue is numb. "Puck, I feel weird. I'm so sleepy."

"Nonononono! Don't fall asleep, Sabrina! I think there was poison on that knife. I can't tell in this rum light. You have to stay awake. Stay with me!" I hear his voice phasing in and out of my head. He slings an arm around my waist and drags me to the car door.

Another curse as he kicks the tire in frustration.

"Well, the car's shot. We'll have to fly. But we'll need our stuff and the car eventually, because no way am I losing the rental deposit. I'll have to summon the cleanup crew. And they might as well get rid of the bodies, too."

I hear the light notes on his flute and in a little while, his pixies arrive. Puck gives them instructions and they swarm around the car, lighting it in a glowing sphere.

Then I am gently hoisted in his arms again and his voice rumbles in his chest, "Here we go."

I am lightly jogged as he breaks into a run and then we are up in the air.

"I'm sorry for bleeding all over your shirt," I murmur.

"No, you're not," comes his voice, and then, more kindly, "Damn, Sabrina, you've got to stop doing this to me."

And I feel his lips brush the top of my head as, around me, his arms tighten just the slightest bit.


	11. Chapter 10

We land on the roof of a hotel and Puck sets me down on the cold ground just under the neon sign that flashes its name. In spite of it being in the middle of the night, it is bright here.

"Ooh, comfy," I manage to say in my stupor. I lean against the concrete base of the sign, strangely limp. At least I'm too debilitated to feel the full sting of my wounds.

"No one will see us here." He states the obvious. "Think of it as the open-air penthouse but without actually checking in at the lobby. Probably best not to waltz in the front door in the state we're in."

"Good point." I sigh.

"But I'll go find something to patch you up with. Be right back. Don't die while I'm away."

"I'll try not to."

I close my eyes.

"And no sleeping, either. Stay awake, Grimm. Please."

I push my eyelids open with my fingers for his benefit.

He rolls his own eyes at me and leaps off the building.

I look up at the stars and try to name the constellations. My head is woozy and the map of the sky is different here than at home and it becomes hard to concentrate. I count backwards from 100 instead.

Before I get to 50, Puck is back with a case of bottled water and several folded sheets.

"I'm not dead." I inform him.

"Glad to hear it."

"Did you bring me a bathtub?" I ask hopefully.

"Nope. They were clean out of bathtubs. I brought the Band-aids you wanted, though." He holds up a sheet and begins ripping it into wide strips.

"Where'd you steal that?"

"Supplies closet. I had to smash a window. You'd think they'd be thoughtful enough to leave one open for emergencies, but no."

"How terribly inconsiderate of them."

"Uh-huh. Now lie down and let me look at you."

I crawl over to where he has spread folded sheets in a makeshift mat. It reminds me of the handkerchief beds Daphne made for her dolls in the happy days before our parents' disappearance turned our lives into a nightmare. I lie down, suddenly aware of how short my dress is.

Puck moves to sit beside me. His hands ghost over my thighs and I draw in an involuntary breath. The pain in my side has gotten worse and it makes the rest of my body more sensitive than usual to any contact. My eyes meet his and he hesitates, waiting for me to react.

I don't. _The lines between us have always been blurred_ , I remind myself.

The same thought must cross his mind because he swallows, and pushes up the fabric of my dress, rolling it out of the way until it exposes my side. He frowns like he doesn't like what he sees and I suddenly remember another night years ago, when I wasn't wounded, when my skin had been whole and tingling for another reason altogether. His hands had been just as gentle then.

But the look in his eyes had been very different.

I shiver at the memory.

"Alright, give it to me, Puck. How bad is it?" I say, just to break the tension.

"Got good news and bad news. The good news is that it didn't go much deeper than the skin. . . I think."

"But the bad news . . . ?"

"It's poisoned."

"And we don't have the antidote."

"Nope."

"So I'm going to die."

"Not on my watch you're not. I'm going to try something. Might hurt."

He leans over, with his mouth millimeters from my skin. I feel his breath on my side.

And he spits.

Before I can recover from the indignity of it, I feel the sting, and then his fingers rubbing around my wound. The pain is exquisite. I gasp.

He spits and rubs again. I suck in a breath. I want to ask him what the hell he is doing, but I can't speak.

Finally, he sits back and looks at me.

"Fairy spit," he says, matter-of-fact. "Wonderful healing properties. Phenomenal stuff."

I continue to gape at him.

"But it only works for some poisons. Fingers crossed that this is one of 'em."

"You spat on me," is all I can say.

'Yep." He grins at me. "What an honor for you. And since you're such a wreck tonight, I'm not charging you a cent. Pro bono. You're welcome!"

I am about to give him a piece of my mind when I realize the pain has dulled and my head is clearer.

"Puck!" I exclaim. "I think it's working! The pain is . . . I don't feel it so much now!"

"Told you." He says it dismissively, although I don't miss the quick look of relief on his face before it melts into a smirk. "This mouth is so awesome that I should get it insured. So, where else do you want it?"

I blush before I can stop myself. He throws his head back and laughs, as if it were completely normal to be saying such things while I'm lying with my dress hitched up to my ribcage.

"Come on, Grimm. There's blood everywhere - I bet it's not just that one scratch. Goblins don't fight nice. Show me. Don't be shy."

Indeed. I'm half-naked already anyway.

I sit up and pull the dress over my head. I want to do it quickly to get it over with, but my head gets stuck in it as it catches at my shoulder where I have clamped my arm to my injured side.

"A little help here, Stinkbutt?" I call out from under the fabric.

It suddenly comes free and I shake my hair away from my face. Puck has not moved to help me; he's sitting and just staring.

I want to call him out for being a pervert, but the look in his eyes stops me.

They are filled with anguish.

Before I can speak, he is a hair's breath from me, one hand on my shoulder, pushing me back into the light, turning my body as he scans it, taking in the gashes and scratches that crisscross my torso, and the evidence of the goblin's bite. Without a word, he pushes me gently back onto the mat, grabs a bottle of water and twists off the cap. He reaches for one of the torn fabric strips, pours water on it and I watch, frozen, as he washes away the blood. I feel wetness trickle over my side onto the fabric below me. Slowly, methodically, he dabs the cloth all over my body, cleaning away the superficial trails of stickiness until he is once again at the wound in my side. He tips the bottle and I hiss as the water cascades over the deeper laceration, smarting. I feel it soak into my undergarments, a cold dampness against my skin. He reaches again for a fresh strip and presses it over the cut.

Then, without looking up, he leans down and puts his lips to my side, and I wait for him to spit again.

But he kisses my skin instead.

And he moves over me, kissing each wound, moving upwards to my neck. My eyes close as I feel him, my mind returning to that night long ago when my body first came alive under his touch. I am trembling in the heavy silence. I don't want him to stop.

I feel his breath on my cheek, and then it is gone. I open my eyes, groggy from the sensations, every nerve on edge. He is sitting up, his back to me, and tearing the sheet again.

"Turn over," he murmurs.

I turn on my good side, my fists clenched against my body to keep from collapsing completely on the damp mat, uncomfortably clammy under my belly.

Again, I feel the gentle dab-and-swab of the cool, wet fabric on my back as Puck repeats his ministrations, my body humming with tension. When I feel his lips on my shoulder, I exhale sharply, the sound like a tiny explosion in the stillness. I ache for his hands to join his mouth on my skin.

My hair moves as he pushes it to the side, out of the way, and presses his lips to my neck. I shudder as the realization hits me: _I have no injuries there_.

 _And he hasn't stopped._

I turn my face to his, my body lifting from the mat.

And his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, fingertips skimming my face.

I kiss him back like I am starving and he is sustenance. I should be aware of the pain in my side as I twist to meet him, but all I feel is Puck and the warm softness of his lips as they move on and around mine, slow yet insistent.

I am incrementally imploding.

Then he draws away. I force my eyes open, completely bereft.

He is looking at me with a half smile, his eyes wide. For a moment, we are silent and I drink in his beauty, letting my walls fall completely.

He raises an eyebrow. "Told you it could be done without fingers." He sits back and leans on his hands, looking smug. "But it's funner with."

And just like that, the moment is over.

"I shoulda just punched you like when we were eleven."

"Sure. In the state you're in."

"I hate you."

"Didn't feel like it just now."

I sit up with some effort, cursing the fact that I have practically nothing on, and that I want to slam Puck into the neon sign flashing above our heads.

I turn my back on him instead, picking up the clean strips of torn fabric. I make a thick pad with one of the strips and hold it against my side as I wrap the others around my body to keep it in place. Puck does not offer to help. He must think his astounding mouthwork was enough to bring instant healing but I still have an weeping - albeit slowly clotting - wound to deal with. When I am done wrapping, I tuck the end of the fabric strip under the band I've made around my middle and look around for something to wear.

My dress lies in a sorry lump beside me but I am not inclined to put it back on, especially soaked with blood and bits of goblin gore. There is one last folded sheet left, and I walk over to pick it up, fling it open and wrap it around myself. Then I finally let myself make eye contact with Puck again.

"Sorry," he says.

For ruining one of the best kisses I've had in recent memory? As if.

"For the goblins," he clarifies, looking up at me, completely oblivious to my frustration. "They did this to you because of me."

"Yeah, well, I figured out that much. Not surprising if you go around making enemies all over the place." I sound angrier than I am. "That goblin said you killed his family. No wonder he was in such a bad mood. Did you?"

"Yes." Puck looks completely unrepentant.

"Why?"

"They were terrorizing innocent villagers. Looting, killing, just like in the movies, except without the epic soundtrack."

"Human villagers?"

Puck shoots me a look. "Does it matter?"

He's right. It shouldn't. I say nothing.

"From what it looked like, it was a fun night out for them. Normally, I'd sit back and watch the action. I'd even join in with a few stink bombs and rotten eggs and such. But there were kids, Grimm. He and his clan were hunting _kids_."

I feel sick.

Puck continues. "So I hunted them back. It was me against, I dunno - forty? - of them. But it was still a fairer fight than with those villagers. Anyway, I left them dead or pretty close to it. I let Knobloch go, though, so he could go home and tell his people how to treat others better in the future. Since I spared his life, he owed me a debt. Always useful, debts. And then he turns around and comes after you. He's lucky I killed him quickly. It would've been worse if I'd hauled him back home to let my fairies deal with him."

"So Rhogin didn't send him?"

"Rhogin? Whatever for? He has no control over his subjects, I tell you. His kingdom is a mess. No, Rhogin is an ambitious, conniving butthead, but he's not a killer. Besides, he's got the hots for you. If anything, he'd send someone to get _me_ out of the picture so he could have you. But he wouldn't. I know him. He prefers to seduce and conquer. Thinks it's more satisfying. Nope, that was Knobloch's personal vendetta; nothing else."

I sit down beside Puck, leaning against the base of the sign again. It's cold so high up, especially when I'm wrapped only in a sheet, and I welcome his warmth.

"How are you not injured?" I ask at last. Then I regret it immediately, imagining the earful I'd get about Puck's superior fighting abilities and supreme strategic intelligence.

To my surprise, he looks away guiltily. "Apparently, the real party was happening where you were. The diversion to draw me away was just three of them. Easy kill. I mean, they were fast but they didn't put up much of a fight. Although they did lead me all over the place so it took me a while to get back to you. I'm really sorry, Sabrina. You shouldn't have to settle my scores."

"I've always had to fight your battles, Gasbag." I say. "And you've fought mine. No reason to think any different as long as we're friends."

Puck turns to me and his face is all light and shadows under the neon glare. "Is that what we are? Friends? Huh."

I remember the kiss.

But also the years he wasn't here.

"Oh. Um. Well, you tell me what you think we are, then."

He sighs. "This again. How many times…?" He looks up at the stars for a long time before speaking. "Okay, fine. Torture me. I swear you're going to forget again and make me do this over and over like some demented penance, anyway. But . . . I owe you one because of tonight. So . . . yeah."

What is he talking about?

He takes a deep breath.

"Sabrina. You and I . . . we're . . . I love you, okay? Always have. And you love me back. At least, I thought you did. Once. But we. . . how do I put it… one day you just changed your mind about us. And you left. No, don't argue. Let me finish."

He puts up a hand as he sees me open my mouth to protest. "You did. But for some reason you don't remember it or you're acting like you don't. I thought maybe there was someone else. But then you called me and emailed and wanted to keep in touch and I couldn't figure you out. It drove me crazy.

"But . . . I missed you. So I kept coming back to you. And we'd be okay for a while but it was never the same, and you'd seem to forget what we had, and you'd leave again. Each time it was longer. And each time I swore I wouldn't let you do it to me again. But I also kept hoping the next time it'd be okay. Finally, one day you left and I waited, like the sap I've turned into, and you never came back. So I went back to Faerie and just threw myself into work. End of story."

Puck sits, biting his lip and frowning. I am silent as I process this utterly foreign explanation of nothing familiar that I've ever known.

"So," he says quietly. "Is there someone else?"

I cannot tell him about Bradley any more than I can tell Bradley about him. I don't know what to say. All I know is I have never ached for Bradley the way I ached for Puck when he kissed me tonight.

"I don't know," I say at last. "It's complicated."

"How? Either there is or there isn't, Sabrina."

"I really don't know, Puck. I'm just really messed up. My head feels like it's in mud. And not only because of the poison. I don't know what I'm feeling. That kiss tonight…" my face is warm as I recall it, and I decide to be honest. "It was great. It was like _we_ were great. But all I remember is you leaving. Disappearing. Never calling, no forwarding address, nothing. Sure, I texted you and stuff, but I never heard back. How can we both remember the exact thing about each other, but totally opposite? Someone has to be wrong."

He throws up his hands. "Life sucks. I don't know what to believe anymore. All I know is I've missed you and here you are and some lowlife cut you up because of me and it's not cool."

His words sound surreal - it's as if I'd spent the last few years yearning to hear exactly what was already common knowledge. Have I been blind? Stupid? Misreading every single social cue that ever passed between us?

What am I missing?

Finally, I nudge his shoulder with mine. "I'll tell you what sucks: this sightseeing adventure." I make air quotation marks with the hand not holding the sheet against me. "Not to be demanding or anything, but wouldn't it be wonderful to actually check into a nice hotel, conscious and without bleeding or being poisoned? It can even have bad coffee. Or no coffee. I don't care at this point, my expectations are that low."

"What?" Puck looks offended. "Isn't my esteemed company worth something? I just threw my reputation to the wind and confessed my feelings for you. Again! And you're just interested in a nice hotel?"

"Not much of a reputation, Trickster. Not after saving an entire village from plunderers for zero personal gain, and plucking me out of a goblin ambush. You don't have an ounce of villainy left in your blood. Deal with it."

"And it's all your fault." I hear him mutter as I continue.

"I just want to sleep. Without fighting people or creatures or monsters. Maybe after a good night's sleep everything will suddenly make sense. Hence, I want to go to bed. And bathe."

"I just gave you a bath! With bottled water!"

"Yes, you did, and it was luxurious." My cheeks flame again. "And I appreciate the irony, particularly since we both know how much you love baths yourself. But back to my point - as you used to say back in the day, fate is mocking me: here we are at a hotel again and where are we sleeping? On the freaking roof. No nice sheets. No privacy."

"You want privacy? There are perfectly good beds below us." Puck grins mischievously. "I can easily break another window. Plus, you know what they say about doing it when you're afraid of being caught."

"That's not what I meant."

"Sure it is." Smirk.

I roll my eyes but say nothing for a while. I am struck by how I am actually content, sitting with Puck on a cold concrete roof, dressed in stolen bedlinen and crusty blood. How I've missed his wild energy and wicked humor, his common sense and integrity, so out of place beside his pranks and irreverence, his inherent goodness that he'd rather die than admit he has any of. I've missed them all.

I've missed _him_.

I stare at his hands, resting on his jeans that are streaked with my blood. I am at a brink, like so many others from which I've stepped away, run away. Screaming as I do.

Not this time.

I take a deep breath and curl my fingers over his. He does not pull away.

"Puck. What if we… can we call truce? It's a deadlock as far as who started what. Either we're both lying or we're both crazy. What if we just started again from here?"

He continues staring out at the velvet darkness. I can see his jaw clench. If what he said is the truth, he is weighing the cost of dragging himself through heartache yet again. If he is lying, he is wondering what I could possibly give him that would be better than his freedom. Either way, I am asking a lot of him.

 _Please step over_ , I mentally plead with him.

"Promise me one thing." When he finally speaks, I have almost given up hope.

"What?" I whisper.

"You don't walk away again. You stick around. No matter what happens." There is panic in his voice.

I want to roll my eyes and call him all the names of delusion because that was _so_ not what happened, ever, but he is talking again. "And I swear I won't let you. Even if you kill me. And I won't leave, either."

He still doesn't look at me.

Then he turns, and his face is backlit by the garish hotel sign, making him look even more otherworldly. It is a mask of pain mixed with hope. It is one of the very few times he has been this serious.

"I promise," I say, and I mean it. "And I won't let you go, either."

He closes his eyes and relaxes.

We sit for a while, our hands together, completely still, utterly quiet, looking everywhere but at each other.

An image of Bradley enters my mind and I am wracked with guilt. I am sorry, because we were good together, like a quiet afternoon on a lazy winter day, and I have so many good memories of us. Bradley is wonderful, but he just isn't Puck. Which isn't his fault, but he's going to get hurt anyway. And I feel horrible that it wasn't more difficult for me to come to this conclusion.

Something pricks at my subconscious, like a piece to a puzzle that's been missing without me being aware that it is: why do I remember Bradley but not Puck?

I turn again to Puck, taking in his profile, outlined in neon. "What were we like? You know, when we weren't walking away from each other?"

He looks back at me, and I remember another night, handcuffed together on a trampoline under an open sky, his gaze equally intense.

"Amazing."

I swallow. "Really? We weren't at each other's throats all the time like when we were kids?"

His smile goes all the way to his eyes. It is irresistible in its impishness.

"We lit up the night, you and I." He says.

I shiver.

If tonight offered any hint, I believe it.

* * *

 **A/N: A kiss :) Tralalalala!**


	12. Chapter 11

When I open my eyes, there is light all around us.

Also, a noisy twittering, like tiny birds on helium. I blink and try to register what I see in front of me - grey cloud, out of which the tops of buildings rise at varying heights. And - not even a foot from my head - an excited crowd of pixies, fluttering on colorful wings.

"Well done, minions. You may go." I hear Puck's sleepy drawl beside me as the pixies fly off.

"What's going on?" I ask. My throat feels dry and filthy. I can't feel my body; I am a floating head that has woken up from a nightmare only to realize it hasn't ended.

"Apparently, they brought our stuff." Puck makes no attempt to move. His eyes are still closed.

As consciousness (and feeling in my body) slowly return to me, I inspect my surroundings. I am on an open roof with no walls and, only several feet below us, a dirty carpet of fog. I cannot tell how high up we are, only that there are taller buildings surrounding ours, and shorter things hidden underneath. Pots and other containers lie haphazardly about the roof, some upturned and some containing sad-looking plants badly in need of a good rain. I am leaning against Puck, with the concrete base of a large hotel sign at our backs. We are in the middle of a forensic team's playground: littered about us are empty water bottles, my unfortunate dress and a disturbing amount of bloodied fabric. We must be quite the sight ourselves - me, barefoot, makeup smeared down my face, wrapped in my bedlinen shroud streaked brown from injuries, and Puck, his arm around me, covered in everyone else's blood, his light hair flattened against his head in dark green patches.

Puck finally opens his eyes, takes us in and gives a low whistle.

"Well, hellooooo, Halloween!" He says, and then grins. "Still alive, then?"

"Only from the neck up," I croak. "And even those parts are suicidal. I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

"Oh, don't exaggerate. It was a tree, and really, just a sapling, then a handful of pond scum blessed us with the pleasure of their company and a couple drops of poison."

He stretches and slowly gets up. I lean forward out of his way as he does, bringing to my attention the ache in my side. My sheet, which must have gotten stuck to his shirt as the blood dried overnight, peels away as we separate. I unwrap it enough to look at my wound. It is still ugly, but there is no fresh blood, and the pain is much dulled. Only time will tell if it is really on the mend, but it certainly feels better than it did last night.

Puck is looking at it, too. He nods like he's impressed I haven't bled out.

Then I notice the suitcase the pixies have brought. I have clothes again! And a toothbrush! Plus a bag of real first aid supplies, left in an untidy pile beside my bag.

And- oh joy - is that a pie, sitting in its dish? It looks homemade; somewhere, a family is missing their lunch and I hope karma rewards them someday for their sacrifice. I practically jump to my feet, bending over almost immediately when my side reminds me I am still an invalid. I unpack quickly, and choose clothes I think will not press too hard on my wound. Puck finds his toothbrush in his backpack, steals my toothpaste and stands at the edge of the roof, gargling out of one of the bottles of water. He spits over the side of the building, right into the thick grey cloud below.

"Puck! That's gross!" I peer up at him from where I am kneeling and rinsing my mouth into one of the empty flowerpots .

He eyes me with disdain and points to his mouth, speaking through dripping foam. "Awesome, remember? So valuable it should be insured? Anything coming out from this is a boon to mankind."

He spits again - a high arc, for emphasis - then peers dejectedly downward. "Assuming it makes it through this smog, I mean."

I shake my head and look around at all the empty bottles. We'd drunk them as we'd sat side-by-side against the hotel sign and talked away the adrenaline from the night's events, eventually giving in to the sleep of sweet delirium. All that hydration has caught up with me this morning, though - I badly need the bathroom.

Puck is apparently in the same boat because he announces loudly from the edge of the roof, "Well, I have to pee." And fumbles with his fly.

"Don't you dare!" I shout, remembering what he'd done while brushing his teeth.

He turns a frown on me, raising upturned palms to the sky in despair. I push my washbasin pot meaningfully in his direction and try not to think about his personal hygiene during his years of exile in the forest.

When we have made ourselves as presentable as can be expected after a bloodletting midnight skirmish followed immediately by a triage campout, Puck summons the pixies again to "dispose of evidence", as he calls it. The greenish clumps of goblin juice have been washed out of his hair and my face is scrubbed of old party makeup in favor of a new layer to conceal as much of the aftermath of the goblin battle as possible. While Puck orders his minions about, I get on my phone and book us on a flight to Florida.

Then we float down through the smog to the back of the hotel. There, Puck's minions have parked our damaged car, except it is no longer damaged; the pixies have magically removed any traces of last night's crash and restored it to almost pristine condition. They twitter about Puck's head excitedly, clearly eager for him to be impressed.

"You did well. I am pleased. You may go." He dismisses them in a bored tone, sounding like the entitled royalty that he is. The pixies don't seem to mind his lukewarm reaction and fly back up to the roof in a cloud of glitter to resume their cleanup.

"They really worked a miracle on this car," I say.

Puck shrugs. "This is easy for them."

"Even so, why don't you ever thank them? You always just say, "Well done"."

"Not a good idea to thank a pixie. Puts you in their debt. Praise is fine, but no thanking. Unless you ask them to kill you, in which case it doesn't matter."

Oh, yeah, debts. Definitely a bad idea. I make it a point to remember that.

We get in the car and drive to the airport, making a stop at the nearest gas station to use the bathroom (oh bliss!) and buy bad coffee (oh phooey). About an hour into our drive, Puck's phone rings. He stares at the screen as his thumb slides across it. "Well whaddya know - it's Jake!"

I listen to Puck's side of the conversation in a drowsy daze. It is a thick, wet morning, nothing at all like the one we spent trawling the market shops in Leicester before our lunch with the Prince. I find it amusing that my uncle calls Puck more than he calls me, his niece. I suppose the time spent traveling the globe must've done wonders for their friendship.

"Really?" I hear Puck's tone rise in interest. "Well, what are the odds? Sure! I'm sure she'd love to see you, too. We leave at . . ." He turns to me, "Jake's in transit at Heathrow just about the time we fly, I think. What time is the flight?"

I tell him, and he continues making plans to meet with my uncle. The homemade pie wasn't as good as it had looked, and it is settling heavily in my stomach. I close my eyes to keep from feeling ill. Before long, I am, once more, lost in memories.

* * *

Bradley has a snowball in each hand.

It is a brisk winter day in the middle of December and there is enough snow on the balcony of his apartment to shape into projectiles for the most cramped snowball fight in all of history. Facing off with about six feet between us, we stand at either end of the small balcony overlooking West 43rd Street, poised like baseball pitchers.

"On three." His voice is melodious, his eyes squinting as if sizing me up for battle. "One! Two -!"

My snowball lands in his eye. He gasps, shakes his head and growls, "Cheat."

"Didn't you get the memo? Two is the new three."

"Well, you've just declared it a free-for-all," he says solemnly, then scoops an armful of carefully-made snowballs and hurls them at me in quick succession. I duck, but it's a lost cause in such a minuscule arena. I empty my pile in his direction, and for a grand total of 15 seconds, it is a war zone.

Then, spent, we look at each other. Snow crusts on our clothes where we have chosen to step out without our coats. His cheeks are flushed, his goatee dusted with the still-falling flurries. His eyes crinkle as he straightens, holding his hand out to me. I take it, and we step back into the apartment, enjoying the blast of warmth as we leave the cold outside.

We drink hot coffee, rich and strong, as we thaw out on the sofa, leaning against each other. I tell him about the assignments I have piling up at school, that I still need to find a couple more clients to make up my internship hours, and that I might not like my supervisor as much as I should. He nods, his hand on my hip, drawing circles on the fabric of the blanket under which we are both snuggled. I love that we have this - our field of work - in common; Bradley was two years ahead of me in grad school when we'd first met in a common class. At the time, he was starting on his thesis for his Ph.D. and I was collecting credits and clocking hours towards my therapist's license. Then, a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend offered him a position in a major organization as their company psychologist and he took it, planning to use the experience within his research and return to academia later. His new job put an end to our convenient meetings in school but there was a happy trade-off: it also financed his very nice apartment in this equally nice neighborhood. I loved spending the weekend afternoons here, unwinding after a busy week with clients and schoolwork, and airing out my grievances against the system to a commiserating ear.

Also, snuggling.

Oh, Bradley and I did a lot of that. After I'd warmed up to him, I mean. For the first few weeks of our intersecting lives, he was quiet and serious and somewhat aloof. Or so I thought, until I realized he'd only been working up the courage to ask me out. He'd dated before, he'd said, so it wasn't as if he were nervous; he just wasn't sure I would be interested, as I'd apparently spend long stretches of time staring at my phone, as if I were waiting for someone to call. Eventually he'd decided just to be a friend, and we'd done the nerdy schoolmate thing and talked shop, analyzing the mentally-tortured characters on each other's assignments. Then one day he'd asked, "Would you let me buy you dinner, so we can role-play Manic Maisie and Schizophrenic Stephen at leisure over pasta?"

And I'd looked at him and realized, for the first time, how brown and beautiful his eyes were against his tanned skin. And chosen not to think about crinkly green or golden curls or sunshine and glitter dust for the first time in many months.

That had been the first of a long string of happy dinners. Sometimes we cooked, sometimes we shared takeout over a superhero flick, and sometimes we dined out - under the awnings of Little Italy, along the cobbled streets of the Meatpacking District, at the shared dimsum tables in Chinatown. And we'd walk, arm-in-arm, sometimes quiet and sometimes laughing, from doorstep to subway station and back again. It had brought a new stillness to my soul - as if I'd been tossing in a storm before and had finally found an island that didn't rock, didn't shift, was always firm.

Then, one night, he'd kissed me, tentative and hesitant, like a boy who wasn't sure that it was a safe thing to do, but was driven to try anyway. I hadn't been surprised - we'd been leading up to this for weeks - but my heart had shattered in that moment because he'd tasted like pastries and chocolate when I'd wanted apples and forests; had felt like a cool breeze on a day in the park when I'd been gazing at my world through windows singed by dragonfire.

I'd mourned, my soul fracturing with each shared breath.

But after, I'd closed my eyes and shut the door behind me, stepped over the brink and moved on. I chose to want Bradley, and to love him all the days of my life.

From then on, I'd fallen into a pattern: losing myself in Bradley's arms whenever the hollowness beckoned, letting them pull me back and hold me in a reality that was solid, predictable, safe. Over time, I'd found myself drifting less, each time orbiting closer, easily spiraling back to where I felt anchored to his gravity. He became my new normal, my harbor, my haven.

Still, I am haunted by shadows of wings and treetops and kisses stolen in silhouette against a full moon.

And some nights, I catch myself straining for echoes in the corners of my mind, as lost as the possibilities that had long ago birthed them. They call to me, like a story I'd heard as a child, or a sleepy lullaby, whose words I no longer remember, even as they dance on the rim of my soul, conjuring joy and contentment, making my heart swell to bursting.

It is hard to forget what it's like to be in love with living magic, even if, after all this time, it seemed only a dream.

And here we are, on the couch on this December afternoon, with five months of Official And Exclusive Dating behind us, and what looks like a long future ahead.

"I'm thinking that after I get my license, I'm going to see the world," I blurt out.

Bradley responds, "Hm. Not planning to actually practice, then? Just hopping on a plane to go globetrotting?"

"Sort of. My grandparents did it, and I'd always thought it was a wonderful idea: do it while I'm still young and have the energy and not yet tied down with kids or a serious career."

"No particular place then, huh, just general country-hopping?" He shifts so he can look at me through those eyes that are the color of chocolate.

I consider this in silence. I haven't thought through the logistics. It had only ever been a vague idea; wishful thinking.

"I guess so," I finally say.

"And do you want company or is this something _you_ need to do?" His voice betrays no emotion; he is in therapist mode as he listens.

"I don't know."

"Hm."

We both ignore the fact that I haven't invited him along.

"I think I'm looking for something." I speak again after a long time. He must have thought I'd fallen asleep, but his reply is so quick that I know he's been waiting to continue the conversation.

"Do you know what it is?"

"No. I'm hoping I'll know it when I see it."

"Ah, so not just plain wanderlust then; it's a journey of self-discovery. Or . . . a quest to find the perfect souvlaki." His tone is amused as he kisses the top of my head. "Let it be known that _that_ can be found in the deli on 66th and 7th. No need to even drive to the airport."

"It's not food, Brad! Is that all you can think of?" I twist to face him.

His expression is one of mock horror. "It's not just any food! I _adore_ food. But only if it's good." He sighs and closes his eyes. "But I digress. I think it's a great idea, Sabrina - you should go. Go drink in all the culture you can possibly find and then come back to me exactly the same as you are now, because-" he opens his eyes and fixes them on mine, " - while you're not perfect, and I still have the burnt pots to prove it, you don't need a thing to complete you."

And then we are kissing, soft and slow, his hands on my back and mine on his face, my body content and relaxed against his, even while my heart shifts restlessly.

* * *

When I open my eyes, I see road ahead of me and signs announcing that we are just a few exits from Heathrow. I am disoriented, my dream (I must have fallen asleep) collapsing into reality and I need a few moments to register that I am, indeed, heading towards a real airport and this is neither Manhattan nor winter.

"Good nap?" Puck's voice calls out.

And that this is not Bradley.

"How long was I out?" I rub the sleep from my eyes.

"Couple hours. Normally, I'd poke you awake - what terrible company you are on a car ride! - But I felt sorry and let you sleep because you're all cut up and all. So fragile, you humans - you take forever to heal." He sneaks a quick glance at me before returning his eyes to the road. "Must've been quite the dream - you were smiling and then frowning and everything."

"Huh?" I say, feeling strangely out of sorts.

"You okay?" Puck asks. He is looking at me worriedly. "You're not having a delayed concussion or something, are you?"

"Don't be an idiot. I just had a dream, is all."

"Was I in it?"

"No!" I say, and feel self-conscious. "Not everything is about you."

He smirks knowingly and then reports, in all seriousness, that while I was out cold, we ran over entire families of raccoons; saw three dead deer in the ditch, one with a brilliant red nose; a pterodactyl overhead, and an ogre of indeterminate sex who was chasing a flock of golden geese. I try -but fail - to hide a smile: not only is Puck being wonderfully silly, but in our world, it's entirely plausible that all those things could actually have happened. He sees my face and grins slyly without another word.

* * *

We return the car to the rental agency, get checked in, clear customs and then head over to the restaurant where Uncle Jake said he'd meet us. We sit in the comfortable silence that often follows a heavy meal, and Puck leans back, slowly stirring his coffee with a cinnamon stick. We look at each other without speaking. My dream is still weighing on my mind; I am torn between two men like the heroine of a trashy novel, except that in my story, one of them is as impossible as he is real, sitting before me with wings folded under his T-shirt and leather jacket. He raises his eyebrow at me and I quirk mine back at him. His lips twitch, drawing my gaze to them. He notices this and smiles; I gum my lips together to stop myself from mirroring him. Back and forth go our facial calisthenics in an adolescent game that reminds me of how seamlessly we'd passed from childhood into adulthood without losing the best parts of ourselves.

Somewhere in his captive gaze, I see his eyes change - softening, as his eyebrows slowly lift and his smile becomes wistful. I know instinctively that he is letting down his walls and I am about to see a side of him that he rarely lets escape from behind his devil-may-care smirk and razor wit. He thinks it is a weakness, but I'd fallen in love with him for it because it is sweet and strong in ways he does not believe it is.

" 'Brina!"

Uncle Jake has arrived. Puck shutters his eyes again and turns to the handsome man with the slightly crooked nose. My uncle no longer wears his multi-pocketed overcoat; he is in a button-down shirt hanging out over dark jeans, a little thinner but nowhere as as world-weary as I expect. I give him the hug I've been saving in the years I haven't seen him.

"Uncle Jake!"

" 'Brina! You look great, kid. And I see you've kept Puck in one piece." He winks at me. "Had me worried for a while when Henry told me you guys were off on your own. Madness, if you ask me."

Puck stands and slaps him on the shoulder. "Hello to you, too, Jake. Well, you two go catch up. I'm outta here. I'll be back to catch our flight. I've seen enough of this guy to last me several lifetimes. The stories I could tell you!"

Uncle Jake says, "Right back at you, buddy!" as Puck tosses his hair, laughs and saunters off.

Uncle Jake slides into Puck's seat just as the server comes with a menu. He orders, and then leans forward over the table.

"So!" He says. "What's new?"

We exchange news - where he's been, what he's been up to, how school's going for me, when both of us are returning home. I want to ask him about Briar but I don't know how. While I'm hesitating, he jumps in.

"How're you and Puck doing?"

I look down at the table. I'd been anticipating this but it still makes my brain stutter.

"We're good."

Uncle Jake raises an eyebrow, waiting.

"We are! What is this, Uncle Jake - an interrogation? We're not teenagers!"

He gives an exaggerated shudder and waves his hand, as if swatting away a bad memory. "Thank heavens for that. No, I didn't mean that. It's just that you two haven't been . . . well, the past few years have been rough between you two, and now here you are seeing the world together - you know, doing what Mom and Dad did when they were younger. So I thought . . . I thought it was a good sign, that's all. Henry mentioned this trip but not much else, so I wanna hear all about it."

 _The past few years have been rough between you two._ I wonder what Uncle Jake knows; he's traveled with Puck for quite a while, after all.

"What do you think happened between us?" I am careful to sound curious rather than defensive.

Uncle Jake sits back in astonishment. "Seriously, 'Brina? You're going to be all coy? This is me you're talking to - Uncle Jake! Hello?"

"I'm not trying to be coy, Uncle Jake I. . . uh . . . I'm having some trouble figuring out what the real story is. It's all really messed up. What do you think happened?"

He eyes me for a while, still incredulous. "Okaaaay . . . once upon a time, there was a girl and a fairy who . . ."

"No! Please, Uncle Jake. I'm serious. Just. . . what happened, you know?"

Uncle Jake's grin fades when he sees that I'm not smiling back. When he speaks again, he sounds concerned. "Well, you guys were finally. . . well, happy together, after playing hard to get for so long. Even your dad was warming to the idea that it was a good match, which is saying something, mind you. And then . . ."

"And then what?"

"You just left, 'Brina."

I feel cold all over.

Uncle Jake sees the look on my face and asks gently, "Didn't you?"

I don't know what to say. I don't understand any of it. It can't be true. And yet, here is Uncle Jake, as objective as they come, who's always looked out for me and who, at this point, probably has the best insight into Puck's life of all the people I know. I need to hear what he thinks. So I ask him to tell me what it looked like, what everyone else thinks happened. He looks uncomfortable, as if he's been asked to do something immoral, but I explain that, lately, I've been second-guessing myself.

Then he slowly and carefully repeats, in not so many words, what Puck had himself told me on the roof the night before. When he is done, he puts his hand on my arm and makes me tell him my version. He does not let me avoid his prompts, and he keeps his face impassive even though I can see the growing worry in his eyes. His food, brought by the server, sits beside him, untouched.

Finally, I am done. My eyes are dry but they are wide and staring in panic. I fight down a scream that is clawing its way out and manage to say, "There is something very wrong with me, Uncle Jake. I think I'm going crazy."

His voice is firm when he speaks. "No, 'Brina, you're not. There is definitely something going on with you but it isn't crazy. Anyone talking to you can tell that you're perfectly sane."

"It's not amnesia, either. Is it? I mean, I remember everyone, and Puck, too. It's just I don't remember parts of what happened. Maybe it's _selective_ amnesia. Or early onset Alzheimer's. But. . . no, because I'm remembering things that supposedly _never_ happened. Or else I'm making it up. Maybe I'm delusional. Or schizo." I'm panicking as I run through the list of disorders from my Psych. textbooks. "Maybe Marian will know. I'll Skype her the first chance I get."

"Who's Marian?"

"My therapist." I don't bother with the disclaimers: that I'm seeing her as a course requirement, that we're still talking above the surface.

"You're seeing a shrink? What for?" He stops speaking, considering. "Hm, maybe that was a good idea, actually."

" _Was_ a good idea?"

He gives me a look. "Yeah. You know, after what happened? It was a lot to uh. . . process. It's okay, 'Brina. I had to get help, too."

What is he talking about?

But he continues without pause. "After Briar. . . I was in a very dark place. Ugh, that sounds so corny, but I can't describe it any other way. Getting outta town helped - you know, just being anywhere but Ferryport Landing. But -" he laughs sardonically, " -she was _everywhere_ \- even that dang Disney merchandise! Oh, she's nothing like the cartoon, but each time I saw a pink backpack on a little girl . . . Anyway, I got help. There was this witchdoctor in . . .er . . . I'm not supposed to reveal where she lives . . . but she sorted me out. No voodoo, nothing like that. Just talking and some herbal tea. Puck recommended her, actually. Whoda thought, right? Said he had a couple of cousins who used to see her, after Oberon took away their powers or something. I think one of them might actually have been dating her and then she ate him, but I might be wrong. It's hard to keep track of Puck's stories."

I am staring at him, open-mouthed at the idea of Puck contributing positively to anyone's mental health. Uncle Jake, however, must assume I am surprised that he is opening up like this because he continues, "Anyway, I'm moving on. It's hard, the hardest thing I've ever done, but I'm better than I was. Although . . . not a day goes by when I don't miss her and wish I could turn back time and make it different." He sighs. "So yeah, I think seeing someone professional is good. You have my total support. How's it working out for you?"

I shake my head to clear out the image of Uncle Jake lying on a woven mat in a grass hut, pouring out his heart to a cannibal, while a cauldron bubbles in the background. I decide that since he's been so candid with his healing, I should reciprocate in kind. I tell him vaguely that Marian is helping me with losing Granny and coping with the war, and that she doesn't know about Everafters or any of its affiliated bizarre dimensions.

"So nothing about Puck, then, huh?"

"Uh . . . not till just recently. And only because we're traveling together now and it's hard to pretend he's not here. We do some of our sessions on Skype. The therapy sessions, I mean."

"So nothing about. . ."

"About what happened? Uncle Jake, I told you: I thought he left. I thought there was nothing to deal with - I mean, it's classic broken heart syndrome. Sure it sucks, but I knew what to be done - just pack up and move on, however long it took."

Uncle Jake looks completely befuddled and opens his mouth to argue, then his face changes, as if something has just dawned on him. He brings his lips slowly together and leans back. For a few seconds, he looks at his neglected food, battles with something inside him and then turns to smile at me.

"Okay. Well. Like I said, 'Brina, you've had it tough the past few years. But, listen - when I just got here, you guys looked like you were good. I have to tell you: it actually looked like old times, so I thought maybe this trip's been good for you both . . .?" He keeps his eyes on me and starts eating, not seeming to care that everything is probably stone cold.

I am tired of analyzing _us_ , especially when I don't know what _us_ is, even now. But I don't want to shut Uncle Jake out. So I say, "I think we're going to try again. Start from here, I mean. Whatever happened that we can't agree happened is just. . . there's no point trying to fix it if we don't even know what _it_ is, right? So. . ."

Uncle Jake positively beams at me, his fork halfway to his mouth, like it's the best news he's heard all year.

"I'm so happy for you, kid. You guys had a really good thing."

In a twisted way, it's actually funny how everyone has seen the absolute opposite of what I remember. I let it slide and sip my cool coffee.

"He's the real deal, you know," Uncle Jake says after a moment's silence, watching me as he chews. "I traveled with him for- what - five? six? - years. A person can tell things in that time. He's sure about you, that much I know. Aren't you sure about him?"

For all that went wrong with Puck and me in the shadow years, I certainly remember things that went right. For one, we were brutally honest. We might have been in denial about what we'd felt for each other, but we'd never pretended to be anything but ourselves. I'd gotten the full brunt of vile, obnoxious, immature, tactless adolescent fairy boy and I certainly hadn't censored my own moody, acerbic, dismissive, insecure teenage girl, but we'd always come back to each other, meeting at all the important crossroads.

Until we didn't.

"I chose him slowly," I muse. "It wasn't a quick thing at all. It took years for me to accept it. That's how I knew it might be the real thing."

Uncle Jake swallows before replying. "He chose you slowly, too, 'Brina. He loved you from the first moment, even though he'd rather die than admit it, and I think it scared him as much as anything he's ever been faced with. But he took his time with the choosing."

"You mean the whole 'growing up for me' bit? Maybe that was true . . . before. Something happened that changed us, and I think it's different now. Maybe he's -"

Uncle Jake leans forward slightly to interrupt. " 'Brina. Look -I was with Puck when your Dad called about this trip, okay? You should've seen him. No hesitation. No 'Aw, gee, do I really have to see her again?' Okay, maybe there was one snide remark about you getting into trouble and needing saving, which is his way of saying he cares - don't roll your eyes! So nope, I don't for a moment believe that he's changed his mind about you. But that's the thing with Puck - once he's decided something, it's a done deal."

I remember all too well Puck's rage when he first found out we'd be together in the future. He hadn't even cared that he'd have my entire family to contend with as he declared a full-out war on me, he was so livid. But after, he'd come to terms with it, resigned himself to being a pawn of fate, as he'd loudly lamented, and never looked back. Puck was many unspeakable things, but commitment-phobic wasn't one of them.

And as he'd continued to grow up and out of his girl-cootie stage, I'd started to understand why it wasn't totally ludicrous that we were together - and happy- in our future.

* * *

 **A/N: So! Some Puckabrina validation from Uncle Jake. And a peek into how he's been coping since the war.**

 **But - Sabrina! What IS going on with our girl?**


	13. Chapter 12

By the time Puck and I are in the air, with Uncle Jake halfway to his next exotic destination, I am almost sentimental.

Until he ruins it all.

"Chick flick . . . chick flick . . . chick flick . . . _another_ chick flick! Why did we pick this airline again? Someone needs to break into their HQ and waste the person in charge of picking the in-flight entertainment!" Puck hisses in disgust, poking the screen in front of him. "Where are the slasher movies? The epic catastrophic disasters and plagues? The payback westerns? I mean, who wants to watch two hours of couples pining by the seashore and writing in diaries? And look at this one - a love triangle! No- it's a love _square_! Look! The stupid girl wants this totally lame boy who's actually in love with her estranged sister who has no idea because she's literally blind and has a crush on her eye doctor because he has a dreamy voice - a _dreamy voice_! Gag! But the doctor - get this - is the ex-husband of that first girl and hasn't ever gotten over her! Who writes these things? And people actually pay actors to perform them? Oh, kill me now!"

"That can be arranged, if you don't stop pushing my seat." A voice sounds from over the screen, where the man sitting in front of Puck is glaring at him over his headrest.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly to the man. "He just has a really hard time flying."

"Only when other people are doing the flying for me!" Puck mutters under his breath.

I shove Puck's shoulder and whisper, "Stop it, Puck. You're just being obnoxious. Read or something. Or eat. Or play games. You're worse than a kid."

"I hate planes," he grouches back, and looks out the window. "We're hardly moving. I can do so much better."

"Mm-hm." I say, closing my eyes. I wonder how Uncle Jake put up with him on their trips around the world. Maybe Puck flew him everywhere, or they went by magic.

Puck shoves my shoulder. "No! You can't sleep! Talk to me, Sabrina, before I go crazy. World affairs, Faerie politics, fashion, Mustardseed's love life, anything. Please!"

"Mustardseed has a love life?" Maybe I won't take a nap after all.

"Actually, scratch that. He has no life. All he does is organize unions or whatever."

"So he's not seeing anyone?"

"Who'd date him? Look at him! Total killjoy!"

"I think he's very nice, actually. He's responsible and clean and strong and serious: a good catch. Girls think guys like that are hot." I hide my grin - I hardly ever get the chance to tease Puck and I'm not about to let this one go.

"What!?" Puck is almost manic now. "He's like the most boring goody-two-shoes ever! He's so proper and. . . and. . . respectable and . . . ugh! Don't tell me you think that's sexier than…"

People turn to glare and shush us. Puck looks like he's about to throw his ration of airplane peanuts at them, but I grab his hand.

"Puck! Stop. I was kidding. I like Mustardseed and I think he's wonderful for Faerie and he's probably some girl's type somewhere out there, but not mine, okay?"

He huffs, still looking crabby. I decide he needs a distraction.

"So, goblins and warm places and Florida. What's up with that?" I ask.

He grunts. "Who knows why they like what they like? They're practically at the bottom of the creature pecking order. Stupid, ugly, greedy, can't fly, can't do magic. Well, except their royalty. _They_ can shape-shift and do their crazy brand of mind-control. But that's it."

"So they're not really a threat, then?"

"I didn't say that. Unfortunately, there are a lot of them all over the world. Much more than Fae. Some of them are even skilled poison makers. And the mischief they get up to! No originality at all. The thing is, as a group - especially if it's a big group under someone's control - they can be quite dangerous. Fae would rather not deal with them at all because they'd stab you in the back in a blink. But Oberon used to humor the goblin kings -this was Gurdach and his father and grandfather; I remember all of them coming to see us on one occasion or another - because it didn't do to be on their bad side. They wanted our herbs and flowers and plants for their potions, and Father allowed them to trade with us as a show of peace between the two kingdoms. We were always careful not to end up in their debt, though, and they in ours. And of course no one ever breathed a word about war or anything like that, even for alliances. They'd totally outnumber us, and we don't want to be controlled by their crazy king."

"He's that powerful, huh?"

"You'd never know it to look at him - Gurdach, I mean. He's a slouchy, insipid old lump, but crafty. I guess you don't get made king just on your good looks. I've never had to deal with him, thankfully. Oberon took care of all that treaty stuff and obviously they've found a way to grow their own poison ingredients now because they haven't come round in centuries asking for ours."

I keep forgetting how old Puck really is. Especially when he's throwing a fit over the movie selection and acting like he's seven.

"And here we are going to drop in uninvited and possibly rob them," I say.

"Yep. I hope we don't get caught. Centuries of Father's careful PR work undone with just one little botched B&E."

I am quiet as I let this sink in. I tell myself I can do this; I'm good at sneaking and I'd done harder things than this when Daphne and I were in the foster care system. Maybe I've never broken into a castle? Palace? Fortress? before, but how much more difficult can that be than escaping from murdererous and abusive foster families?

Puck crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me. "So, you never told me why this potion thingy is so important."

I stare back at him. "Mom and Dad didn't tell you? You've come along for the ride all this time without knowing what we're doing?"

"I agreed to come along as your bodyguard, nitwit. I've stopped asking questions long ago when it comes to the Grimms. Your family is nuts."

"I don't need a bodyguard!"

"Not this again! You're so stubborn, Grimm. Since the day we met, you and your family have been disaster magnets. All kinds of people want you dead. I don't know how you're still alive after all these years when I wasn't around to keep an eye on you. I mean, look at what happened on this trip - in less than 48 hours, you fainted twice, got yourself brainwashed by the Goblin Prince, no less, _and_ viciously attacked and almost killed by a bunch of lesser goblins. Seriously?"

"I'm going to be kind and not remind you that the goblins were entirely your fault. Oh, wait, I just did."

He grimaces, and reaches over to lift the armrest between us so he can take my fingers in his. "Look, Grimm. We've been over this before. I'm not saying you're useless. Actually, you handled yourself pretty well out there last night - goblins are tricky cowards and they fight dirty. It's just that, you know, you're a _Grimm_ , and your family has, like, a _gaboozleload_ of enemies! I just like my favorite person better in one piece, okay?"

I stare at him in amazement. Puberty has done wonders for him- this is a much better pitch than the drivel he spewed when he was eleven. Or four thousand and eleven.

"Okay," I say.

He lifts my hand and brushes his lips across my knuckles, then smiles lopsidedly. I let myself get just a tiny bit lost in his eyes.

"So… what were we talking about?" His smile turns wicked when he realizes I've been staring at him.

"Uh. . . the elixir - why we want it."

"Oh yeah. So why do we want it?"

"It's for Uncle Jake. Well, actually, it's for Briar. To be honest, I think it's a little creepy, but maybe I haven't lost someone I love like that. Unjustly and prematurely lost them, I mean."

Puck's expression clouds over for a second before he shakes it off with a frown. "Seriously? Was this Jake's idea, then? He never said anything while we were traveling together."

"I was under the impression that it was Mom's and Dad's idea. I think they don't want him to know until we actually have it, so he won't get his hopes up for nothing if we don't."

Puck shakes his head. "I don't buy it. I mean, I don't think it's what Jake would want. Sure, he was pretty torn up over what happened, and he'll probably always love Briar and all that sentimental crud, but it's been years, and he _is_ moving on. He's um -" Puck hesitates, "-seeing someone."

"Yeah - a cannibalistic shrink in the middle of nowhere. He told me. Apparently, you recommended her."

"You know about Nomusa? Isn't she awesome? Even awesomer than Baba Yaga! Did you know she dates her clients and then eats them? Talk about breaking all the rules at once! Maybe she'll eat Jake, too! But no, not her. I mean, yes, he was seeing her, but that's not what I meant. He's actually _seeing_ someone. Like _dating_ -seeing."

"What?"

"He's keeping it a secret, but he didn't say I couldn't tell people about it. So . . . yeah."

"Puck! That's what keeping a secret means, you idiot. I can't believe you!"

"Whatever. It's not like the entire internet doesn't know. He's posting photos on his Facebook page, he's so giddy with looooove."

That sounds so like Uncle Jake that I laugh.

"So who is it? Anyone I know?"

"Some Arabian princess he met while we were seeing the world." He gestures grandly, then looks serious. "I'm happy for him."

"Aw."

"Because he finally started shaving and getting haircuts." He ignores my contribution. "Before, it was like traveling with Chewbacca."

"Which reminds me, if you really were done treasure-hunting years ago like you said, what were you doing in Amsterdam with Uncle Jake this time, anyway?"

"Bulgaria."

"What?"

"We were in Bulgaria. Amsterdam was just transit. There was some kind of deal Jake wanted to make with a witch, and she asked for something I had, so Jake called me. And I got on a plane and went. It wasn't as if I was doing anything important back home, anyway."

"Couldn't just Fed-Ex it to Bulgaria, huh?"

"Nope - she wanted it fresh."

"Ew. What was it?"

"Spit."

"Spit?"

" _Fairy_ spit. Told you it was amazing. Everyone wants it. _Kings_ have been ransomed with it. And you -" he pokes me, "-can have it anytime you want."

"Pity it doesn't raise the dead, or you could spit in a test-tube and we can go home right now."

"Yeah, well, resurrection is creepy. Who'd wanna do that?"

"Someone who's lost someone important might."

Puck shrugs dismissively. "Not if they don't know what kind of person they're getting back. Ever heard of zombies? I think it's just better not to mess with the dead. And besides, people move on, don't they? Eventually, anyway. I know Jake has."

I ponder this. It doesn't make sense for Mom and Dad to want to want this elixir for Uncle Jake if he doesn't want to bring Briar back.

"Maybe Mom and Dad don't know," I finally decide. "I mean, they're not on social media much, so they won't have seen the photos. And if Uncle Jake's keeping it a secret from the family. . ."

Puck snorts. "Marshmallow _lives_ on the internet. She's totally in the know, I'll bet my brother's wings on it. She knows everything that happens everywhere, anytime, five seconds before it even happens."

I am stumped into silence for a while. So why on earth are we on this mission?

And then it dawns on me.

I glare at Puck.

"They're trying to get us back together!" I hiss louder than I mean to, and people turn to stare at us. "It's all a scam. There is no elixir! It's just some elaborate hoax Daphne cooked up because she's a diehard romantic! I'm going to strangle her when I get home!"

"Tut- tut! No. There totally is an elixir. Rhogin has it, remember? He told you himself. Of course, Marshmallow could be secretly in cahoots with Rhogin and he and his entire goblin kingdom are playing along. Or maybe she blackmailed him because she found compromising photos of him on the internet." His eyes suddenly glaze over in admiration. "Marshmallow is awesome! I didn't see that coming. She and I should write a book together. I can see it now - _How to Fool Your Friends And Trick Your Enemies!_ By Robin Goodfellow and Daphne Grimm."

"Hello? Getting off-point, Puck. This stinks. When we land, I'm going to call Mom and get to the bottom of this. I've been on wild goose chases in the past but this one takes the cake!"

"Relax," Puck murmurs. "It's probably a huge misunderstanding. We'll cut short this sightseeing tour - it was totally useless anyway as far as sights go - and catch the next flight to the Bahamas like I wanted. Beaches, lazing, you in practically nothing, lots of food. . . ah . . . heaven."

I shove him. "You wish, buster."

"Oh, I do."

I'm still seething minutes later when I notice that Puck has slumped down in his seat and has closed his eyes, a smile on his face. I try not to imagine what he might be dreaming, if he's asleep at all.

"Although . . ." he mumbles, cracking open one eye to wink at my stormy expression. "You've gotta admit that making up has been fun."

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaaaand we leave England behind us, and head to the sunny shores of Florida, USA. I'd always wondered if Puck flew in airplanes, or if he could take on the skies himself and country-hop like a migrating goose.**

 **A short chapter today, but lots of P+S dialogue, which is always fun to write.**

 **Also, if you're new to the story, welcome! The plan is to keep putting a chapter out every day or every other day. The whole story is finished, but I'm editing - which is the most fun part, I think, because I get to re-read my own writing and gasp in horror at the bits that, as my writing friend (see my profile for explanation) says, are "nice but er... need tightening."**

 **Most chapters are literally ready to go, but some need to have entire paragraphs thrown out for sheer repetitiveness. I began writing this over a year ago, and took long breaks in between when life got busy, and it's always a little funky returning to the plot after - you never remember what your trend of thought was months before, and you often end up adding superfluous connections to (over)compensate. At least, that's what happens with me. And then I re-read it and go, "Ugh. Cut! Cut!"**

 **Have a lovely week!**


	14. Chapter 13

We're at the resort by the time someone answers my calls and I'm seriously suspicious that my entire family has been deliberately ignoring me.

I prop the phone against the alarm clock on the nightstand and try to keep my voice even.

"Sabrina!" On the screen, my mother looks and sounds happy. "How's everything? Puck there with you?"

"Yes, as you very well know," I reply. "Mom, what's this about? Who's the elixir for? Do you even really want it? Why did you send me halfway across the world with Puck? What's going on?"

Mom takes a second to recover from my barrage of questions. She has the grace to look slightly uncomfortable.

"I thought you knew," she says finally, carefully. "Whom did you think it was for?"

"Uncle Jake! Well, for Briar, anyway. But apparently, maybe Uncle Jake doesn't want Briar back as much as we thought, Mom. Puck says he's seeing someone now. Not that it means he doesn't care about Briar, but it sure looks like he's moved on, and maybe Briar coming back into the picture might crowd things a little."

"Oh, it isn't for Uncle Jake, actually," Mom replies. "We just thought it was a useful thing to have in storage for . . . emergencies and such. And really, you needed a vacation, sweetheart. And some quality time with Puck - you two haven't seen each other in so long, what with him so busy in Faerie and all."

I can't believe my parents planned this. I could possibly imagine Daphne thinking this up, but surely Mom and Dad would've been more hands-off. Especially Dad - even after all these years, I couldn't see him encouraging Puck and me to spend time alone together.

"Mom." I sigh, tired. "You tricked me. You all tricked me. And I bet Daphne was behind this. Mom, I'm not sixteen. You guys need to stop this matchmaking. I'm coming home tomorrow."

"Well, you and Puck did need to work things out." She doesn't sound at all contrite. "And -honestly - would you have agreed if you'd known?"

"I would NOT."

"See? That's why it had to be done this way. And don't come home yet, honey. Enjoy yourselves! Where are you now? Oh, Florida! I can see the Disneyworld brochures on your nightstand. Florida's gorgeous! Go have fun and catch up and take your time."

"Oh, but we want to go to the Bahamas!" Puck emerges from the bathroom, hair damp from his shower. "Hey, Veronica! How are you? I was right - your daughter is a death trap. It's a good thing I was here to save her. Again."

"Sabrina! Did you get hurt? What happened?"

"Nothing, Mom. Small goblin incident. I'm fine."

"Oh. Well, that's good. Look, you both - don't go to the Bahamas yet. You still need to continue looking for that elixir, okay? It's actually quite important that we get it. I can't tell you what for, yet. Just trust me." Mom's voice hardens at the end, even though her smile is still benign.

Puck narrows his eyes at her face on the screen. "What's going on, Veronica? Who did you kill?"

"Nobody!" She sighs. "I know it's asking a lot to just do this, but it's important to the family. That's all I should say right now. I'll let you know if anything changes, okay? Please?"

I surrender. We're already here, anyway, and I trust Mom enough to know that she really must have a good reason for dispatching us on these dubious missions. When I say this to her, she smiles, relieved, while Puck rolls his eyes, bitterly muttering something about James Bond and unlimited access to state-of-the-art weapons.

"Take care of Sabrina, Puck!" Mom calls out just before she disconnects.

I turn to Puck as he flips his hands towards the ceiling. "I know! I know! You're totally badass and don't need taking care of!"

* * *

Later, I emerge from my shower feeling truly happy for leaving behind the physical reminders of the goblin fight to swirl down the drain. Puck is lying on his belly on the bed, surrounded by tourist brochures and my open laptop.

"Looking for flights to the Bahamas?" I ask, toweling my hair dry.

"Nope. Trying to get the lay of the land." He glances up at me briefly. "I think the trod is somewhere in -" He flips a brochure over to stare at the name, " - Magic Kingdom."

"You got all that on the internet and Disney brochures?"

"The internet has everything, man! The Disney brochures, on the other hand . . . not so much."

"And this trod is to. . .?"

"Gurdach's kingdom. . . realm . . . whatever you wanna call it. C'mere and look at this." He shoves away the brochures and pats the space next to him. I lie beside him and stare at the screen. On it is a map of Florida.

"So - there are all these doors from this world to magical dimensions, right? Regular mortals can't see them because these dimensions are all veiled - that's the word Fae use - but in some places, this veil is thin, and you can possibly find your way into a magical realm if you know where to look. Or sometimes people fall in by accident, or they're snatched by one of ours. I've never snatched anyone myself, in case you're wondering; it's a huge mess to clean up after - you need tons of forgetful dust and everything. And we're not even talking about when your people get seriously hurt, or die, because they're so weak and can't hold up under all that magic. But anyway, these trods - the doors - exist all over."

"Like the statue of Hans Christian Anderson."

"Exactly. That's a trod to Faerie. What we want is a trod to the goblin kingdom."

"And you Googled 'Goblin Kingdom Trod' and found it."

"Not quite," Puck replies, eyes on the screen as his fingers skim the tracking pad. "You have to know what you're looking for - markers and ley lines crossing and special shapes of landforms and things like that, which you can see on a map if you have the Sight. Which all Fae have, and some humans, but I doubt if you're one of them because _you_ couldn't even recognize enemies when they're staring you in the face. I'm almost sure that the trod we want is somewhere in Magic Kingdom - it makes sense that Disneyworld would be one of those places where people can cross over. I mean, all that crazy sparkle glitter is one thing, but it's really how humans so badly want to be magical, and not just the little kids, and who could blame them? Although why anyone would want to be like that dope Pan - can you believe he actually has a ride in Magic Kingdom? True, it's beyond lame because you don't get to actually fly; you apparently just sit in some mechanical boat thing, according to the reviews, which are completely biased and stupid, and you can totally go ahead and kiss me if you want."

I don't hear it right away, because I've been staring at Puck's profile as he's talking, his voice dulling to a pleasant noise in the background. His eyes, reflecting the glow of the screen, are bright under his lashes, and his hair, damp against his head, don't quite cover the tips of his ears. Which are pointy. Which I've always found fascinating.

"Huh?" I say, when it finally registers.

"Because you haven't heard a word I've said in the past ten minutes, because you've been distracted by my face, because it's perfect and sooooooooooooo gorgeous."

He turns on his side to balance on his elbow, his head resting on his fist in an exaggerated pose. "Go ahead. Look all you want."

Oh my word, he is beautiful.

My heart skips a beat. Many beats. And now it's practically stopped. I feel obliged to attempt a denial, even though it's probably too late. I try anyway.

"Actually, I was looking at your ear."

He arches an eyebrow, looking slightly disappointed.

"Why? Is there something on it?"

"No. It's just . . . pointy."

"What?"

"Humans don't have pointy ears. Ours are round."

"Are you drunk?"

"Not. . . technically." I'm losing the battle. I can't think of anything else to say. I decide that surrender is more fun anyway.

"O-kaaaay," Puck looks at me suspiciously. "Then what's wrong with …"

He stops suddenly as I scoot right up against him, my skin on fire where my forehead brushes his cheek.

And I kiss him.

I've heard it said that when people kiss, fireworks explode and their brains turn to mush and they are spontaneously electrocuted by the sheer chemistry of the union.

I, however, do not feel my insides charring. Or my mind fading into oblivion. Or my ears ringing with the sounds of celebration.

I feel, instead - as I did on the roof when it was Puck who'd leaned in - oddly _right_. _Right_ like something fierce and alive has been set free, or like something tethered to its own gravity has skipped effortlessly into orbit

Or like something on the edge of memory has been pulled into focus, sharp and bright.

I feel his initial surprise as he freezes for a millisecond, hear his weak gasp as he dips his head and I take his earlobe between my lips, working my way around to the pointed tip that had so arrested me earlier. And he shifts, pulling me into him as he rolls over, burying his face in my neck and sighing against my skin.

For a long moment, we hold each other. He breathes deeply, doesn't say a word, doesn't lift his head. I want to ask if he is okay, because it isn't how I thought he'd behave after all the flirting, because I'd expected him to be all cocky and smirky and I-told-you-so.

Then he pushes himself up and I see his face, framed by messy curls as he looks down at me. His eyes are sparkling, his mouth pulled into the hint of a smile. I am suddenly afraid he is going to pull a prank or say something to ruin everything. I push my finger toward his lips to stop him.

I never make it.

He tilts his head and kisses me on my mouth, jaw, throat, and back up again. I feel the warm, solid weight of him settle on me as he frees his hands from under him to slide down my body. His fingers find mine and lift our arms above my head as the kisses continue. They are not the urgent, fumbling explorations of a first crush or the frantic sucking of lovers consumed by passion. His are the deep, simmering kisses of a soulmate who feels like home.

And - oh - I _pray_ he doesn't stop.

Then, out of nowhere, I am hit by a stray thought: _I hope we don't knock the laptop off the bed_.

And I laugh.

He growls against my ear. "You _are_ sloshed, curse it. Now I'll have to stop because it would be taking advantage of you."

"I am not drunk," I murmur. "And if you stop, I will kill you."

"Mmm." He growls lazily before his hands duck under the hem of my shirt, pushing it up. I arch upwards against him and feel the fabric slide up behind me to my shoulders.

He pauses as I relax away from him. I watch his face and feel his fingers on the wound on my side. It's doing well but even with Puck's spit-treatment, it will be at least another two, three days before I no longer feel it.

He reaches down and plants a flutter of a kiss on it, and then nuzzles my belly, his hands on the small of my back, holding me against his face as he peppers a circle of more kisses around my belly-button. He sighs deeply.

"Maybe we _should_ stop," he whispers regretfully. "You're still not healed."

Nonononononononononononono.

I palm my face and make muffled, unhappy noises as he rolls off me and onto his side. I feel his hand moving up and down my arm in slow, gentle strokes.

"I have to kill you now," I say sadly when I finally emerge from behind my hands.

He smiles, and my heart hurts to look at him.

"The Bahamas wouldn't have worked anyway," I continue when he doesn't speak. He is still stroking my arm, calming his own ragged breaths and my hammering heart. "My midriff is mutilated. I couldn't walk around in a bikini without scaring people away."

"Where we'd be, there wouldn't be anyone to scare away. It'd be just us, and I don't scare easily."

"Thanks a lot."

Puck chuckles. His eyes close as his breathing slows.

"Don't take this personally, but I think I need a nap. It's all this bed-less traveling between fighting for our lives. I mean, for _your_ life. Because _my_ life was never in danger." He yawns and sinks onto the bed. "Come here and sleep with me."

His lips turn up in a sly grin as he says this, even though his eyes are still closed.

"Grrrr." I growl.

Then I shut the laptop and lean over to set it on the floor before scrambling back to his side.

"I love you, Stinky," he slurs drowsily, his arm around me.

I watch him until he falls asleep and cannot hear me before I whisper the words back to him.

And wonder what it means that in the last half hour, I hadn't thought of Bradley at all.


	15. Chapter 14

We sleep in late.

Even though the jet lag should have had us up before dawn, my body is exhausted from healing itself. When I open heavy eyes to the world, the sun is shining brightly through the windows, whose drapes we'd been too tired to pull shut the night before. I uncurl myself and slide out of bed, leaving Puck still unconscious on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. My cheeks warm as I take in the sight of the Disneyworld brochures strewn over the bed and on the floor, remembering what had happened to disarrange them so.

"Wake up, Puck!" I call to him. "It's past eleven."

He grunts. I abandon him to his sloth and head once more to the bathroom.

* * *

At half-past two, we clear the gates of Magic Kingdom, fed and slightly hungover. Dressed as tourists - jeans, T-shirts and no weapons - we wander into the park, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people posing for photos, oblivious to everyone else around them but the characters they have paid an exorbitant entrance fee to see. I feel strangely detached as I watch Aurora and Cinderella smile and hug the children who have been waiting in line for them.

If only they knew the real Cindy and Briar, I think, now both dead because they'd sacrificed their lives for the men they loved. How totally un-damsel-in-distress.

Puck tugs my arm. He is still unhappy that he had to leave his weapons behind in the hotel - we'd never get past gate security, I'd told him - and he wasn't impressed when I'd said we could just as well use our fists if we needed to.

"My sword _is_ my fists," he'd grumbled. "And you don't know goblins. I'd rather not touch them at all."

"We need to find the trod," he says now, still scowling.

"All business?" I return, surprised. "I thought you wanted to go on all the rides."

"Only the ones that promise to scare my pants off. And I was misled - there are none in this park. These are for babies."

"Fine. No rides. Let's find this trod, then. Where do we start?" I fish my map out of my back pocket and open it, but Puck puts out his hand.

"No need." He taps his temple. "I've got it here."

He turns and walks - and I follow - through the throngs of people. Sometimes he walks single-mindedly, and sometimes he pauses, as if listening - or, more accurately, _feeling_ \- for something, before continuing. He doesn't backtrack and he doesn't make sharp turns; he just keeps walking as if on a clear path only he can see.

Finally, he stops and turns to me. We are in front of an attraction called "The Seven Dwarfs Mine Train".

"It's in here," he announces, frowning at the long line of people snaking towards the entrance.

"We gonna get in line, then?"

"Either that, or I fly up and into the tunnel."

"Let's not."

"I didn't think so."

We wait for 45 minutes before it's our turn. By then, I'd gotten the evil eye from at least two teenage girls who'd been staring at Puck. I am tempted to tell them, "He's way too old for you" just to see their reactions, but I remember that this is Disneyworld, and everyone here is too old for everything else. Puck hasn't even noticed the attention he's getting - he's still brooding and unnaturally quiet as he sits in the train car, looking out as if expecting someone to jump at him from the rocky facade.

"What's up with you?" I nudge his arm.

"Hm?" He responds, distracted. "Strong magic. It's the trod. Can't you feel it?"

"Not really. What does it feel like?"

"Like. . . just strong magic. I thought you'd be able to feel it, since you're not good around magic."

"Nope."

He does not answer, just stares to the side, concentrating. As the train enters the tunnel, he sits straighter and leans down to speak over the roar, "In here. Get ready to jump."

I shout back, "Are you crazy? Where everyone can see us?"

He looks annoyed. "Right. Bad idea." Then he retreats into silence for the rest of the ride, staring into the darkness of the tunnel and the displays of fake gems and caves and animated dwarfs.

I think of Seven, and his six companions, the _real_ dwarfs from the story, who work in the New York subway system and look nothing like the big-nosed mechanical characters that we've passed. When I was a child, I used to imagine that Disneyworld was the most amazing place ever, and I don't remember exactly when I'd finally realized that the characters weren't real, that their worlds were only sparkly stories where the day always ended with happy families and full bellies.

Then I _lived_ in those sparkly stories.

Which were a thousand times _weirder_ and less believable than Disneyworld.

Puck was right about people longing to pass through the veil into magical realms, but sometimes the door that beckons us away from one reality actually hides us from another.

And all these smiling people, with their Mickey Mouse hats and glittery plastic wands and snapping cameras have _absolutely no idea_.

At the end of the ride, we climb out and walk away from the crowd (and the teenage girls).

"Let's sneak in later tonight when there's no one," I say.

"I was thinking the same thing. I know it's in the tunnel, but we might have to hunt around a bit before we find the actual entrance. We'll have to wait till the park closes so no one sees us."

"So we won't get thrown out?"

"No, so they don't wander in after us. People could get killed, or trapped in a world they can never escape. All kinds of bad."

"People like us, you mean?"

He snorts. "Nah. We'll be fine. You have me, remember?"

* * *

We kill time. And we get hungry. We find a corner shop selling hunks of turkey leg. There is a long line. Puck fidgets.

"This is not happening! I'm royalty! Royalty does not wait in line!" He grabs my hand and pulls me into a dark corner, out of sight.

"What are you planning, Puck?" I venture, worried.

"This is Magic Kingdom, right? Let's give the people what they came for." He unfurls his wings and marches back out and right to the front of the line.

I realize too late what he plans to do, by which time he is too far ahead to hear my protest.

He calls out, sounding genuinely apologetic. "Sorry! Sorry! Hate to jump the queue but we have to be on stage in five minutes and if I don't get something to eat, I'll collapse halfway through the number. Thank you, miss! Sorry about this! One turkey leg, fries, a Coke and a salad and whatever that thing is in the plastic container." The regret he conveys at inconveniencing everyone, combined with the gentle flutter of his wings for effect seem to placate the tourists, and they genially murmur permutations of, "Sure!", "Go ahead!" and "Not a problem."

I am incredulous at his audacity. To his credit, he does not smirk once, just stands there as he waits for his order, smiling around with the appropriate balance of sheepishness and gratitude.

And then it all goes sour.

"It's Tinkerbell's daddy!" A high voice carries over the general conversation and the whir of the ceiling fan.

"Can't be, sweetheart." A woman's voice responds.

"It is! See his wings? They're just like hers!"

I have the mad urge to explode in laughter, as I see the speakers - a little girl no older than 4 or 5, dressed in an off-shoulder Cinderella dress, holding her mother's hand with one of hers, and pointing at Puck with the other.

"No, sweetheart. Tinkerbell doesn't have a daddy."

"Because Peter Pan is her daddy?"

"Oh, honey, he's probably from a different story."

"Maybe _he's_ Peter Pan! Maybe he bought his wings from the gift shop because it's better to have wings when you fly." Then, before her mother can stop her, the little girl raises her shrill voice and calls out with the stubborn righteousness of the young and unselfconscious, "Are you Peter Pan dressed up?"

I am laughing so hard I almost miss the drama dancing in livid scarlet across Puck's face. For the first time in a long while, he is speechless. He cannot effectively deny the claim without countering it with his true identity; if he did, everyone would know there is no show or performance in Disneyworld in which Shakespeare has a stake. I do not feel sorry for him at all; he had it coming, taking advantage of other people. In fact, I want to slap high-fives with the tiny little preschooler who has so thoroughly defeated the Trickster King.

I am still giggling when Puck slaps on a fake grin and chokes out, "You'll have to come to the show to find out!"

When he finally gets his tray, he stomps past me like a thunderstorm. I still can't compose myself long enough to even say, "I told you so."

We finish the entire meal before Puck finally breaks the silence with a hiss.

"One million Renaissance Festivals in the world where everyone would recognize me and pay. Homage. On. Their. Knees! And the freaking trod had to be in Disneyfreakingworld."

I just grin at him.

Unable to put his wings away in plain sight of everyone, he is sitting with them extended behind him, already having told off at least four kids who tried to touch them, plus a bevy of excited teenagers who'd wanted to know if they could be found at the gift shop on Main Street.

"All I wanted to say was you'd better start singing and dancing soon before everyone finds out your show - the one you were in such a hurry to get to - doesn't exist"

"Shut up. I got you food, didn't I? Ungrateful wench."

I grin wider.

Puck finally retracts his wings in a secluded corner and we spend the remainder of the evening in the lines for all the high-thrill rides, of which Puck liked only the Buzz Lightyear one, and only because he got to take out his bitter aggression on monsters with his ray gun. Then we have dinner, and this time, Puck dutifully waits his turn and does not pull any tricks. He glares at me as we eat, as if his unwilling display of consideration for others is my fault.

Finally, when the sky drips shades of cobalt, we sneak onto Huck Finn's island and hide ourselves in the ruined caves, hunkering down to wait for the park to shut down for the night. As the world darkens, we listen to the sound of fireworks ushering in the triumphant conclusion to another magical day in the happiest place on earth.

We wait, and wait, and wait, going over the plan in whispers, until I am sick of its simplicity and the danger that it guarantees: sneak in by stealth, find the wing/floor/room most likely to be the royal chambers using cunning, luck or a maid with a loose tongue, find the elixir and sneak out.

"It is never going to work!" I tell Puck for the thirty-seventh time. "Assuming we don't die gruesome deaths at the main gate, and assuming we find our way to Rhogin without triggering the security system of the place, how are we going to locate the thing? And if we're caught, which we're almost certain to be, in spite of me being particularly gifted at sneaking, how are we going to explain to him how we managed to be there in his castle? Or palace? Or whatever house it is he lives in?"

Puck rolls his eyes. "I told you - it won't have to come to that. All we need is a talkative palace servant, which we can encourage with either my natural charm or loaded questioning at the end of a sharp, pointy weapon."

"Assuming the palace servants know where the elixir is."

"If you find the right servants, yes."

"Oh, and the right servants are the ones wearing the buttons saying, 'Ask me where the elixir is hidden!' ?"

"Leave that to me," Puck replies dispassionately, and refuses to elaborate.

Then he cocks his head and listens. "I think they've all gone home. Time to get this show on the road."

Much as I am convinced we are walking to our deaths, it feels much better than sitting in darkness waiting for it. I stand and stretch next to Puck, then walk out of our hiding place into the quiet night air, still humid from the day. Puck wraps his arms around my waist and lets out his wings, which beat lazily behind him. I hook one arm around his neck.

"Ready?" He asks, and then we are in the air, looking down on deserted pantomime towns and cities. I will never get tired of flying with Puck - especially when I'm not bleeding from a poisoned wound.

We land inside the enclosure of the Dwarf Mine Ride itself, near the entrance to one of the tunnels. We duck into it, with only Puck's flashlight to illuminate where the moonlight is unable to penetrate any deeper into the darkness. The animated dwarf statues look even creepier in the harsh beams of light that pool around them and resurrect dark shadows at their backs.

"What does a trod look like?" I ask.

"You'll know it when you see it," Puck replies. "It's different in each place. Sometimes it's a cave entrance, sometimes a natural door, sometimes a hole in a tree, or a wall. It'll have magic around it."

I don't find this helpful in the least, but we keep looking, like vandals in a shop window hunting for treasure, peering behind displays, knocking on surfaces, staring into the tunnels that have been hollowed out of the rock.

Puck suddenly switches off his flashlight and we are plunged into complete darkness. I consider slapping his shoulder hard and berating him for choosing this time for one of his odious pranks, but he reaches out and holds my arm.

"Wait. Look."

I look. At first, I don't see anything. Then I do - a glow towards the back of the cave we're in. It's light - green and steady.

We make our way towards it and I see it emanating from a section of wall, glowing as if backlit by emerald fire from deep in the rock itself. Except it isn't rock- it's cement and plaster and wooden scaffolds and other man-made things.

Isn't it?

Puck lays his hand on the wall and the glow pulses as the entire wall shimmers suddenly and vanishes.

He turns to me. "After you, my lady."

"That was easy. I thought we'd be here telling knock-knock jokes all night."

"Not all trods are that sadistic," he returns, then takes my hand and pulls me through.

* * *

 **A/N: Bit of trivia: when I first started this story, I got to visit Disneyworld with my family. At the time, the Dwarf Mine Cart Ride (or whatever it's called) was under construction. I remember peeking through the safety enclosure fence and thinking, "This would be an awesome setting for shenanigans! I shall have to write it into my story, and include the real Dwarfs who'd resigned from the NY subway system to start a new job here as workers and consultant architects!"**

 **Then, months later, by the time I actually got to writing this chapter, the actual ride was finished, and up and running, and I had to change the story and turn it into a trod instead. It did, however, motivate me to resume writing in a hurry, just in case other plot details changed and left me stranded!**


	16. Chapter 15

Instantly, the world changes.

Not a gradual fading of one environment into another, like the seamless transition along a continuum of seasons, this is an abrupt stepping over from here to there, where Just Now has stopped and Right This Minute begins as if it's always been. Behind me was the darkness of an artificial cave; before me is a dry and dusty plain stretching for miles, ringed by clusters of mountains and scattered with smaller hills.

Sitting on one of the hills is a fortress of stone, backed by a taller cliff behind it. It is daytime here - I can tell by the three suns in a sky so pale it is almost white. The dry heat that bakes this world is intense, and the ground shimmers from it. Here and there, the earth tones of the landscape are interrupted by splashes of green in patches and strings, tracing their way to the hill with the fortress, as if there are invisible underground waterways coming intermittently close enough to the surface to sustain life.

"I guess this never made it to the Top Ten Bucket List Vacation Spots," I say at last.

"Nope. This is definitely not the Bahamas, much as the balmy weather might suggest."

"So… that's the castle, huh?" I turn to the foreboding bulk of misshapen architecture standing elevated above the arid land, as we duck under the shade of the closest tree in a small copse, which is still a five minute walk away.

"Yup. Fortified walls, battlements all along the top, archers at attention, possibly gargoyles defending the air. Dungeons in the lowest three levels and the backyard is the dump for the bodies of the prisoners and doubles as feeding ground for carrion and scavengers."

We eye the vultures and other raptors circling above the hulking structure.

"I guess it's like a bird feeder to the royal family - scatter a prisoner or two who bled out in the dungeons and watch the birds come." Puck continues. "That's the only way to get out once you're in, FYI - bird food. And there's no way in except by conquest- either you storm the gates, which would be risking death, or you get dragged in as a spoil of war. Apparently, diplomatic visits are not a priority."

"You've been here before?"

"No. Like I said, Gurdach doesn't do diplomacy. But Rhogin described it all to me when we were kids. It was another of his games. You know - My Castle Is Better Than Your Castle."

"So we can't even sneak our way in?"

Puck is staring at something in the distance, and he turns to me with a grin. "Actually, we can. There's a convoy of about ten, maybe fifteen horses heading this way, with prisoners. We'll sneak in with them."

Puck blows on his pipe and waits impatiently for his newest minions to appear. He barks instructions at them, then turns back to me. "They're going to cause a diversion so we can join the convoy without being noticed. Now this is a stroke of luck!"

"And how will . . .?" I begin, but I stop as I see Puck morph fluidly into a chestnut stallion, his clothes mysteriously absorbed into the change. He stands and tosses his mane, then speaks, disgusted, in Puck's voice. "Dang. This is way too awesome, even for me."

With a quick flick of his head, the proud stance of the stallion gives way to the tired slouch of a pack horse, brown and nondescript. His voice, though, is the same as he instructs, "When the horses come close, the pixies will distract them. Throw yourself over my back as if you're an unconscious prisoner. We'll wing it once we're in the castle."

I look down at myself. I am in jeans and a T-shirt, both of which feel like too much clothing in this sauna universe and look completely out of place in a land where horses are still used to cart provisions and hapless victims to and fro. But there is no time to say so. Puck and I hide among the trees as best we can as we hear the sound of the party approaching.

The convoy, as Puck had seen from afar, is a line of about fifteen horses, carrying bundles - prisoners, prone and unmoving - on their backs. Goblins accompany the animals - leading the procession, walking beside the horses to ensure their loads stay put, bringing up the rear. They plod along steadily, paying no attention to their surroundings, not expecting to be attacked.

To their detriment.

The pixies descend on them and do their work, biting the horses so they toss their heads and swish their tails and whinny in agony. One or two of them stamp and turn their heads to snap at their own backs where the pixies have concentrated their efforts. Two goblins slide off the front horses and try to calm them. No one's attention is at the back of the line, so Puck and I, draped belly down over his back, quickly join them. Puck dips his horse head and pulls something off the ground, flinging it over his back so that I am partly covered by it. It is an old, scratchy wool blanket that must have fallen off one of the other horses in the melee.

The pixies suddenly abandon their twisted game and back off, flying away into the trees. The procession reorganizes itself, not noticing the new additions, and proceeds towards the hill on which the castle sits. It is a bumpy ride on Puck's back and I fervently hope I don't slip.

We climb the hill and stand at the huge iron gate. The two goblins in charge of the operation present themselves to the gate guardians, who, as far as goblins go, are huge and exceptionally mean-looking.

The portcullis rises and we are in.

The goblins walk us to the stables on the East side - judging from the sun; does it it even rise on the same side in this realm as ours do in our world? - of the castle and leave us in a building among other horses, the smell of hay and livestock heavy in the hot air.

Clearly, there is no worry of the prisoners escaping, but that could have a lot to do with their being unconscious. Or . . . dead? I don't want to find out. Puck turns and mutters for me to get off his back. Seconds after my feet touch the ground, the horse turns back into Puck.

"We're in." He states the obvious. "Now, where to start? And we should get out of here before the groom or some other stablehand comes in. You didn't get a good look at the castle, did you?"

I close my eyes and try to bring up the mental snapshot my mind took earlier.

"Wide windows in the front and side walls in four rows, so four floors above the ground, maybe more under, including your three floors of dungeons. Three narrow towers in a triangular configuration, with a row of upper windows and more windows sparse and staggered below, so possibly a room at the top and staircases underneath to access it. Narrower windows above the floors, close to the battlements, I'm guessing those are for archers to shoot out of, in addition to those along the roof that you mentioned. Walls made of smooth rock; not easy to scale. No moat or any other natural ground defence; the walls are built right from the ground up, so they probably aren't afraid of land attacks. No substantial vegetation for about half a mile all around, or anywhere, really- makes it easy to spot enemies approaching. And that one gate that I could see, guarded by four goblins, armed with spears and other long-range weapons, opens manually; no machinery. Inside that, an empty courtyard leading off to stables, and several large arches, probably to the main halls in three directions - East, West and South. No guards in the courtyard, plus the time taken for the stablehands to appear, mean there are several layers between that and the inhabitants. I'm guessing that either it's understaffed or everyone is deep in the building."

Puck gives me an impressed look.

"Years of sneaking out of foster homes," I enlighten him. "You learn to take everything in at first glance."

"And here I was thinking that going to law school turned you into a dimwit on the battlefield."

"Psychology."

"Huh?"

"Not law."

"Well, that makes a heck of a difference."

"Focus, Puck. We need to find Rhogin."

"Well, we can rule out this wing, anyway. It's just stables and kitchens and other utility annexes. The North hall is only two stories high, and it's wide, with huge windows - that would be the main hall, for visits and feasts and such. The West and the South have four floors, and smaller windows. I'm betting on either, and probably the top floor for bedrooms and suites."

Now it's my turn to look impressed, although Puck does have the experience of a long life in comparable real estate from which to form his deductions.

"I'll take the South," I volunteer.

"West for me, then," he says, looking around the stable. He finds some tools that might work for weapons and hands me a long knife. It looks like it's more suited for harvesting grasses than fighting, but it will have to do.

Puck peers out at the sky. "Meet back here at sunset if you don't find him or the elixir. Sooner if you do."

"Sunset? It's still early in the day! How long does it take to search one wing of this place?"

"Time is different here, Grimm; it's faster. When we got here and saw the convoy, it was just after sunrise, but it's already midday now - look, you can tell by the suns."

I peer out of the stables, where the sky is visible above the open courtyard. Puck is right - the shadows on the ground are short and the heat is the intense burn of noon.

"It will be sunset in a couple of hours, our time. And don't bother with your watch - it doesn't work here."

I shrug away the weirdness of this alternate world, and nod. "I still think this is a lot of hoohah for an artifact we don't even know the use for."

"Aw, come on, Grimm. Where's your sense of adventure?" Puck returns with a grin.

"Fine. Whatever. Let's do this and get outta here."

He grabs my arm, suddenly serious. "Remember - don't let them touch you. Especially not the royal Whosits."

I roll my eyes at him. "I'll try to teleport the elixir out of their willing fingers, then."

We part ways, each to our assigned section of the castle. I slip under the archway of the South wing. It is dark, even in the daytime- all the functional windows are on the upper floors, leaving the ground level to the mercy of artificial lighting. I follow the sconces on the wall, mentally mapping the path I'm taking, saving it for my return journey, and hoping that it won't get too twisty later on.

It does.

I pass rooms with doors and rooms without, rooms the size of broom closets and rooms that could house a small village, rooms richly furnished from chandeliered ceiling to carpeted floor and rooms with nothing in them but old furniture or chests shoved in corners, bathed in motes of dust adrift in colorless sunshine.

Around one corner, the darkness gives way to a sudden burst of sunlight along a short corridor - here, the walls open up to a large archway leading to outdoor gardens. But they are not the beautifully landscaped bowers I might associate with royal residences; these look more like allotments- efficient rectangular flats of greenery grown simply for the purpose of an eventual harvest. I do not recognize any of the plants - some have strong smells and some curl wickedly around stakes; if there are flowers or any other beautifying features, they seem to be purely incidental.

I remember Puck telling me about the goblins finding their own ways of obtaining potion ingredients - it looks like they're now growing their own.

I continue on as the sunny corridor plunges back into the darkness of the adjoining hallway. It seems that there is no order or theme to the living spaces of this wing - they are haphazard and random - except for one important feature: they are completely devoid of occupants.

I wish my cell phone worked here, because my mind is already composing texts to send to Puck: _"Ghost town meets weed farm. U?"_

As I peek through each doorway, initially cautious but gradually letting my guard down, I wonder if I have inadvertently picked the guest wing of the castle, the silent emptiness of which is testament to the misanthropy of the Goblin King, or if this is the aftermath of a mass evacuation.

Where _are_ the goblins? Perhaps it's lunch time and everyone has gone to the dining rooms, I decide. But no, did I not just walk past a huge hall in which a table was laid for at least a dozen, but which stood without even a dish, let alone feasters?

I am still wondering when I come upon a doorway of a different kind - this one has steps leading both upwards and downwards in steep spirals. I must have reached one of the turrets we'd noticed from the outside. I know I am supposed to be looking for Rhogin's chambers but I am curious about the dungeons. It will just be a peek. Besides, any dungeon occupants will be safely behind bars, so I only have to deal with the guards, who will most likely not be expecting me. If I am especially lucky, they might even be asleep.

The first level is a small circular hall lit by more sconces on stone walls otherwise bare. I continue descending.

The next level is larger, with doors -some open and some shut -leading off from a central foyer. I listen, but I hear no sound, so I peek through one of the open doorways, into a room with a huge table laden with bottles, jars, bowls and other containers. There is a crude sink against a wall, filled with water and floating plants. Various tools and instruments litter the counters where they have been used and cast aside. The word "laboratory" comes to mind, although this room has none of the sterile conditions of modern labs.

 _"Stinks like drug factory. No workers. Maybe tipped off?"_ I mentally text Puck.

The next room is similar, except it also has an old stove, with cauldrons on it, literally bubbling. I roll my eyes, composing, _"Potion warehouse. Srsly?"_

I check out all the rooms - even those with closed doors are unlocked and easily entered. Each of them is almost a copy of the others, with slight variations: a stove, a sink, drying racks, what looks like a stone mill, shelves of bottles and flasks, all unlabeled.

For a moment, I wonder if the elixir is in one of them, then snort when I remember that Rhogin has it, and this does not look like a place the Crown Prince would store his treasures.

I hear a noise and I duck behind the door, peeking through the gap in the doorframe. A goblin-the first I've seen since entering the castle -walks into one of the other rooms, hefts out a cask and carries it laboriously down the staircase. I wait to see if the goblin will return but he? she? does not. I sneak out and down the spiral staircase after him, keeping to the shadows.

The third basement is quite different. At last, here - clearly - are the dungeons I've heard about: I smell and hear the prisoners even before I see them.

I stay concealed and watch. The goblin with the cask is in one of the first cells. The door is carelessly wide open but no one is even attempting to escape. Instead, the occupants - I cannot tell what they are from my hiding place - cower and howl in the back of their shadowy prison, as the goblin, assisted by two others, deals with them.

I hear sounds of struggling and screams of terror abruptly drowned in gurgling, choking sputters - different voices, all suffering the same outcome. Then come the noises of bodies falling and whimpering in pain too great to scream at; gasping, grunting.

I bite my lip hard to stop from giving voice to my panic. I should run back up the stairs while I can, but I am frozen in morbid fascination: what are these jailers, conspicuously silent in contrast to their moaning victims, doing to torture these prisoners?

The three goblins exit the cell and slam the door shut. They enter the next cell and repeat their treatment of the prisoners.

And the next. And the next. I clap my hands over my ears to drown out the sounds of abject misery that follow them deeper and deeper into the innards of the dungeons.

Suddenly, the three goblins turn around and return by the way they came. They swing their cask - now evidently empty - easily between them. I press myself back into the shadows as they pass my hiding place and climb the staircase, speaking to one another in low, hissing voices.

I wait before venturing out, in case they return. When they don't, I creep to the first of the cells visited by the goblin trio, peering furtively through the bars. In the dim light from the wall sconces, I can see four prisoners, listless and weak. Two are small, spindly creatures with enormous eyes that I don't recognize. The third is a dwarf and the fourth is a fairy. They look up when they see my shadow, and there is terror in their eyes.

The fairy, however, stares at me in amazement, then scampers to the door and grabs the bars. "My Lady! My Lady!" His whisper is hoarse with pain. "Please! Save me! Don't let them turn me!"

I am about to look behind me to see whom he means when I realize I am the one he is addressing.

 _My Lady_? Who? What?

"What are they doing?" I ask him.

"They are turning us!" He cries desperately, reaching out through the bars to me.

"I don't understand!" I hiss back, feeling useless. "I'll try to get you out. I can pick the lock."

"Call your servants!" He urges. "Please! Call them!"

 _My servants?_

"Please!"

A noise from the staircase makes my heart leap into my throat. The goblins must be coming back. I retreat deeper into the dungeons to hide, leaving the poor fairy with his arms outstretched and grasping at air. The goblins are lugging another cask between them, which they lower to the ground in front of the fairy's cell. He shrieks and pulls his arms back inside, as the goblins open the door and enter.

I want to shout, but I swallow my fear and watch, my stomach knotting and pulsing bile up into my throat. I hear the screams, the gurgling, the whimpers, the crying, as the goblins administer a second dose. I dig my fingernails into my palms. Do I rush out and defend the prisoners and give myself -and Puck - away? Or do I stick to our mission and let them suffer at the hands of their captors?

I hear a weak cry, "My Lady! Please . . ."

And my decision is made for me.

I pull out my knife, sneak as quietly as I can behind the goblins, hoping the element of surprise will let me take out at least one of them before I have to fight them en masse.

And step into a puddle of whatever was in the cask, leaked out onto the floor. The tiny splash my foot makes turns all three heads. I curse their sensitive ears as they stare at me.

"You should stop when you hear 'No', " I tell them. "Those prisoners don't want you doing . . . whatever it is you're doing."

As one, they spit and hiss and leap.

My mind retreats to a happy place, texting, _"Ambush. A little help?"_ as I swing my knife and duck and try not to get killed. Much as I've practiced with weapons in the past, I am still much more comfortable with my fists, and this grass-cutter of a blade is not the perfectly balanced sword with which Puck had trained me as a teenager. I punch one of the goblins with my free hand and he staggers, which buys me a little time to swing my knife at the other two. I feel clumsy and reactive and I know that if this continues, they will eventually get me. I must isolate them and take them one by one.

So I kick the cask and tip it over. The goblins yell and scramble to right it. It must be highly valuable stuff, I deduce, as I run deeper into the dungeons, passing cells now ominously quiet.

I hide and wait. The goblins, having saved their precious cask, now come for me.

I force myself to stay still and listen over the pounding of my heart until I hear the heavy breathing of - yes!- just one, by himself. Then I crouch and with a quick slash, cut his legs below the knee. He calls out and falls, and I steel myself and stab him through the back, hard. He collapses on his face and does not move again.

 _"1 down. 2 to go. Where R U?"_ I telepathically send to Puck.

 _"BTW, 1 of ur subjects called me my lady. Weird."_

"This butter knife stinks."

My volley of imaginary texts is cut short when I spot the next goblin coming. I duck back into hiding.

He sees his fallen comrade and yells as he runs.

When he stops, I shout, "Hey!" and he spins, looking for me.

I fling my arm out and cut him across the chest; he cries out in pain but stays upright, eyes blazing.

He swings at me and I duck, jabbing at him under his arm.

He groans as I catch him in the side. Then he leaps onto me and we go down, too close together for me to use my knife.

I drop it and grab him around the neck with my hands and squeeze, an unfortunately useless move because he spits at me, apparently unaffected, and twists his shoulders, breaking my grip.

I grab his face and dig my fingers into his eyes. This, at least, elicits a response, and he flails for a moment. I push him off me and am up on my feet when he jumps on me again.

This time I side-step and slam my fist into the side of his head. As he falls, I kick him in the chest where he is bleeding. He shrieks and I kick him again, buying myself enough time to grab the knife off the floor and, when he conveniently arches his back for a moment, slash it across his throat.

The sound he makes as he dies is not unlike the choking gargle of the prisoners as he tortured them. I remind myself of this fact as I fight down the guilt of taking a life, even that of scum.

 _"Killing stinks, too,"_ I compose in my head.

From behind me, the third goblin attacks, all claws and teeth and heat and spittle. I feel my head jerk back as, again, my hair becomes my handicap.

I thrust the knife backwards, praying I don't hit my own body, and the goblin grunts, loosening his hold. I twist away and slash wildly, weighed down by the sickening sense of deja vu and trying not to imagine being once again poisoned. The goblin holds his side, unsteady on his feet.

I step forward and, fueled by disgust and rage and desperation, bring down the knife on him, not even caring where my aim lands it. He falls, with my blade in his shoulder, almost taking me with him. I stumble to keep my balance, yank the knife out and drive it into the soft flesh of his belly. He will bleed slowly to death this way, which is cruel, so I stab again, this time impaling him in the heart. He twitches, and lies still.

I stagger towards the wall and lean against it, trying to catch my breath. I know that there is no reason to relax because at any moment, reinforcements could arrive, and I'd be a sitting duck, especially if they are trained guards. But I have to know what happened to the fairy and his cellmates, so I run to his door and look in.

"Hello?" I say.

It is eerily silent in the cell. I wonder if they are all dead.

But no, they are moving, jerking in spasms like zombies in a B-grade movie. I stare, wishing I'd asked his name earlier so I could call out to him now.

I blink.

He looks . . . _different_.

In fact, all four of them do.

Where he once had the lithe grace and fair beauty so like Puck's, he now is a misshapen, twisted wreck, panting in the corner, his skin blotchy and his head patchy where it had previously been gold and lush. Only his wings - insectile and quivering - remain as before.

"Fairy!" I call. "Are you alright?"

He lifts his face to me and I take a step back in fright.

He is a _goblin._

And so are his companions - wrinkled and bent and spindly and bulbous-headed, they cry out piteously.

I realize all at once that this is not prison torture - this is _experimentation_. These prisoners are specimens, lab rats fed whatever is in the cask, to change then into something else.

" _They are turning us._ " The fairy had said.

I run to the other cells and peer in. They are all filled with creatures of different sizes, and all are goblins. One is monstrous, and I wonder if it might have been a small ogre or troll before it was turned. They are curled up or lying down, panting and gasping and occasionally whimpering.

Then I notice something - in the cells farther down the row, the faux-goblin occupants seem more energetic, and do not sound labored like the others. I squint at them, and I blink again - they look less like goblins and more like some other creature.

And as I watch, they seem to become even less goblin-like, taking on more of their other-ness.

Eventually, unbelievably, their appearance morphs into elves, sprites, dwarfs, naiads, trolls.

They are turning _back_.

My mouth hangs open as I take this all in. I run back to the cell with the fairy. Like the others, these four are moving more easily now, and the fairy's hair is restoring itself, his skin slowly smoothing out as the wrinkles disappear and his body straightens. He is breathing evenly and I dare to wait the few minutes until he is himself again.

"Are you alright?" I ask him.

He looks at me out of jewel-blue eyes and cocks his head.

"My Lady!" He breathes. "You saved me!"

I feel like a world-class piece of garbage. "Actually, I didn't. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

He opens his mouth to answer but his face contorts in pain and he gasps and cries out, falling to his knees again. Before my eyes, he shrivels and crumples, and his golden head moults once more, wisps of discarded hair dusting the wings he has finally shed in two fine gossamer sieves on the ground.

No, he is _not_ okay.

And with my hand over my mouth to keep from retching, I turn and flee.


	17. Chapter 16

I am back at the landing where the staircase splits. I allow myself a few breaths to collect my boiling emotions, my mind still reeling from what I'd seen in the dungeons. All thoughts of snarky texting have abandoned me, and I feel alone.

 _Focus, Sabrina. Find Rhogin. Get the elixir. Leave ASAP._

But what are they doing to those prisoners? What is it _for_?

I climb the staircase, forcing my mind to concentrate on the task at hand - navigating the upper four floors. It feels hopeless - a vial that could be anywhere in this fortress is not so much a needle-in-a-haystack situation as it is an invasion of one against an army, on their own turf.

Again, the idea that we don't even know what the wretched elixir is for other than my family deems it "quite important", grates at me, but I push the thought aside, making myself look at my surroundings instead.

As on the ground floor, the first storey is lined with doors, some open and some shut. I grip my blade, sticky and clammy from goblin blood, and skulk from room to room.

Empty.

At least it is bright here, thanks to the windows, and I make quick work of my reconnaissance.

The second and third floors are the same - rooms of random dimensions and eclectic furnishings, all devoid of life.

On the fourth floor, it changes.

Along the walls lining the broad central hallway are heavy tapestries and gilt-framed portraits, the first sign that this is a home, and that its occupants are wealthy. Puck had been right - the top floor must be where the suites and bedrooms are. I quietly pad forward, glad that the plush carpet muffles my footfalls.

I peer around the next corner and pull back in a hurry. There are guards - more of the belligerent goblins-in-arms variety - standing outside one of the doors. There must be something -or someone - important in that room, I decide.

Maybe it's the elixir, my heart wildly hopes, and Rhogin has set guards to vouchsafe its secrecy! All I have to do is despatch them and I can breeze in, behold the vial sitting under a glass dome on a pedestal, and be on my merry way. It would make a fabulous mental-text to Puck. I bet his adventures in the West Wing don't come anywhere close to as exciting as mine.

As if.

I tear down my optimistic hypothesis at once, reminding myself that if the vial is a secret from even the King, Rhogin would hardly elevate it to Eyes On Me status.

Regardless, whatever's behind that door that's being watched by goblins must be either worth rescuing, or discovering.

I take a deep breath, and walk out in plain view.

The guards turn. Their hands fly to their weapons - short swords by their sides - and draw them. I raise my hands, drop my own inferior gardening blade on the carpeted floor and continue my approach. The goblins look slightly bewildered, as if their combat programming only covered menacing assailants but skimped on the unarmed volunteer surrendees.

Except there is no such thing as a _truly_ unarmed volunteer surrendee.

I sprint the last few steps towards them and dive for their legs. One of them goes down, his sword hitting the ground before he does, knocked out of his grip. It is a risky move and not one I'd usually try on anyone larger than a human, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I can imagine Puck rolling his eyes if he were witness to this.

"Rookie move!" He'd scoff. "The bowling ball tactic only works if you have mass. Like rhino mass! Or mastodon mass!"

I roll away and, by pure chance, come close enough to the fallen sword that I claim it. My mental keypad is back at work: _"Eat that, P."_

The guards are fully animated now, the one with the sword slashing while his unarmed colleague circles me, wary of his hijacked blade in my hand.

I decide not to bother with interrogation - better to just get rid of these oafs and find out for myself what they'd been guarding.

The fight is short and quick. Fighting with a real sword is so much better than swinging a stable tool. It cuts cleanly, deeper, is far more aerodynamic, and makes a lovely sound singing through the air. And goblinsmith is well known in folklore; I certainly believe it - this blade is wonderful, and all of Puck's lessons come back to me as I wield it.

I leave the guards where they've fallen on the floor and step over them toward the door. It is not locked, which surprises me. I open it cautiously, just in case something feral is behind it, only to find a long, empty room. At the other end is another door, this one with a heavy bolt and a peephole under a flap.

I lift the flap and peer in - this room is furnished, but there is no sign of a prisoner. I draw back the bolt and push the door open, my wonder sword in my hand, ready for a new skirmish.

But there is none. It is almost a letdown, after the adrenaline high of the fight with the guards, or the anticipation of finding a breathtaking wonder behind the door.

There is a fire burning low in the hearth, which is ludicrous, considering the ambient temperature is bordering on sauna, but it makes me suspicious that the Breathtaking Wonder might be a _someone_ rather than a something. I contemplate calling out to the prisoner, to let him/her know I am not his/her captor.

When the armchair, facing the fire, its back toward the door, turns slightly and a figure rises out of it.

It is a goblin (I really shouldn't be surprised, seeing that not only is this goblin country, but every other creature that enters this fortress is turned into one).

However, this one is taller and better postured than the others I've seen, dressed in a long robe, which makes it look like a cartoon character, and its eyes are deep blue, intelligent, and _familiar_.

It stares at me, stunned, and then, before I can react, morphs.

Into Prince Rhogin.

Well, at least I don't have to ask Puck about goblin anatomy now.

"Sabrina Grimm!" He acknowledges me, astounded.

"Rhogin! Er, I mean, Your Majesty!" I respond, equally nonplussed. "Why . . . what . . .?"

"How on earth. . . ?" He stammers back, and then looks toward the open door in amazement where the legs of one of the guards are visible out in the hallway.

"Uh. . . that was me." I am not sure if I'm taking credit or making a confession.

"You?"

"You didn't hear the party out there? The shouts? The death throes?" I am incredulous. I mean, I'd taken them down quickly, but while we were at it, we hadn't exactly been using our inside voices.

He shakes his head. "They're a whole room away. And these rooms-" he knocks on the wall, "- are practically soundproof. But . . ." he falters, "why are you here? _How_ are you even here?"

Then, coming to his senses, he shuts the door, as if it will keep out enemies, and pulls me deeper into the room.

"It's not safe. You're not safe here!" His voice is urgent, desperate. "Is Puck here, too?"

"Yes, but he's in the other wing. And what's with the experiments in the dungeons?"

"The dungeons? You've been in the dungeons? Did my father . . . ?"

I lay a hand on his arm to calm him. "No. Look, we'd better start at the beginning. You first. What in the world is going on?"

He shakes his head in agitation. "I don't know! I returned from England, where we last met, as you remember, to find my father . . . unstable. _More_ unstable than usual, I mean. He said he was going to take over the Everafter world, which I shrugged off, because he's always talked about that and not actually done anything about it. But this time, he said, he had a plan in place - something about taking it from the inside. And then he said he was building an army and he wanted me to lead it and bring glory to goblinkind. Now, I'm all for glory for my people, but I'm not keen on taking over the world to get it. Somehow I was fool enough to tell him so, and we . . . let's just say that we had an altercation. And when I wouldn't back down, my mother stepped in - but she was clearly on his side - and that made it even worse, and then he hit me and called me a traitor and other things I shan't repeat to you. Then he hit me again, knowing I'd never hit him back, the _coward_ , and did something to my mind and I blacked out. When I came to, I was locked in my room here and I've been a prisoner since."

He pauses, wild-eyed from both his rant and the days of isolation he'd endured.

"And the guards?" I ask. "Your father put them there?"

"He must have. I'd never actually seen them till now. There's just been food delivered and taken away, and it's been quite civil, really. If I'd known, I might have tried to reach them . . ."

He notices my raised eyebrow and clarifies, tapping his temple. "My mind, you know. I can . . . influence my subjects. I'm not as skilled as my father - not even close - but all royalty can do it to some extent. Although. . . " he considers, "No. That's why he put them in the hallway and not just outside _this_ door. He's got them under his control and if they were any closer, I'd have been able to bend them to me. The proximity . . . it's a . . . thing."

Don't I know it. I'm standing here with him and feeling it - his power, the draw of it like a magnet, insistent and steady.

"But you!" He continues, "how are you here?"

"Never mind that," I hurriedly deflect him. It wouldn't do for him to know why Puck and I are really here. "What's going on in the dungeons?"

His mystified look is all I need to begin unloading on him the underground horrors I'd witnessed. I might be a fool for confiding in the Crown Prince himself, especially since it is in his home that the crimes are being committed, and maybe I am under his spell and playing right into a trap, but I need to tell someone. After all, if _he_ were the one behind them, my confession wouldn't matter; I was already in hot water.

If, however, he is as much in the dark as I'd been . . .

"But that's impossible," he objects, when my unloading is all done.

"Come see for yourself, then." I grab his arm. "Why would I make this up?"

A split second is all it takes for him to set his jaw and push open his door. He steps over the guards without even a glance and strides down the hallway to the stairs, not bothering with sneaking. He is outraged at having been kept a prisoner in his own home, outraged at finding out that atrocities are playing out in his basement, outraged that he is ignorant while an intruder waltzes in to enlighten him with information she has no business having.

No guards molest us on the way, and we pause at the entrance to the dungeons, where Rhogin, with a shiver that runs the length of his body, resumes his goblin guise. He explains that it might raise suspicions if he appeared human in his own home, adding sardonically, "Although if I'd known I was going to have company, I'd have had my brows plucked."

Personally, I think the fact that he is roaming free, no longer incarcerated, is more suspicious than being seen in his human form, but his flippant attempt at humor throws me off and I stare at him in disbelief.

"You're making jokes? At a time like this?"

"I'm merely trying to lighten the mood before we witness whatever nightmare it is my father has dreamed up in there. Also, I'm so unspeakably thankful that I am no longer a prisoner myself that I feel positively buoyant."

I shrug a _whatever_. Secretly, I am relieved - it is much easier to resist him when he isn't six-foot-two and aesthetically stunning.

We enter. Rhogin turns a different direction than the way I'd gone, away from the cell with the tormented fairy, but here, too, are cubicles of misery. Rhogin is completely silent as he walks from door to door. The prisoners are all in different stages - and directions - of metamorphosis, and the ones who are fully turned lie motionless on the floor, their blinking eyes and heaving bodies the only indication that they are alive. The others - who alternately scream and whimper - thrash about, flinging themselves against the bars, throwing out limbs and spittle alike. Rhogin, to his credit, does not recoil.

"Impossible," he repeats, half to himself. "This is impossible."

"Clearly it isn't," I remark dryly, "as you can see."

"No. I meant that it _shouldn't_ be possible, not that it _couldn't_. My father should not be playing God. He -"

"I'm fairly certain God wouldn't do something like this."

"No. Yes." Rhogin is frowning in agitation, his eyebrows knitted together like a furry caterpillar. "What I meant is he has no right to do this. This. . . these. . ." he gestures to the cells, "these are abominations! To goblinkind as well as to every other kind here."

"What - that they're mingling species? But what about you . . . changing between human and goblin?" I challenge him. "Or Puck, for that matter, morphing into gorillas and rhinos and walruses and even chairs, for heaven's sake?"

"That's not the same! We _choose_ to do it. We learn it when we are young and perfect it by practice. It's a glamor- we do it to walk unseen among human mortals when we visit your world. Fae - like Puck - already so closely resemble humans that all it takes is a little change - on their ears, perhaps, and they can reserve most of their magic for the forms that differ more from their natural appearance.

"Royalty - because of the purity of our blood - are especially gifted; not only is it easier for us but the results are also more dramatic. But the common folk-" his voice drops to an impassioned whisper as he gestures with his head towards the cells again "- don't usually have enough magic for this. It can be acquired, yes - with boons and favors and wishes and such - but it takes years to accumulate enough power for anything significant. What my father is doing here is absolutely heinous - it goes against the laws of nature and. . . free will and . . . basic decency! I don't know what he hopes to achieve by turning isolated prisoners into goblins like this, but he must be stopped. I must find a way. And possibly free them as well - no matter what they've done to get here in the first place, I have my doubts that they'd actually committed crimes worth imprisonment. It is far more likely they were kidnapped and brought here against their will to be tortured as part of his sick experiment."

As he talks, we round the corner to the block of cells where I'd fought and killed the wardens. When all I see are puddles of sticky blood on the ground and no bodies, my breath hitches. In the minutes I'd spent in the upper floors, someone has been by.

I freeze and halt the Prince.

"Someone's come since I was here last," I hiss. "And they might still be in here."

I quickly explain about the missing bodies; he nods and we back up the way we came, keeping now to the shadows, not speaking except in signs. It seems pointless after having been loudly discussing the ethics of unnatural metamorphosis, and I mentally kick myself for being careless.

Perhaps we will be lucky and the Someones will have gone back upstairs for more casks of Evil Potion, I think.

Then I give myself a second kick for wishing it.

We make it back to the entrance without incident but just when we are about to leave, I remember the fairy. I put my hand on Rhogin's arm and tell him that I need to check on someone, and he raises a hairy goblin eyebrow at me, as if he cannot believe I am pushing our luck. I ignore him, and hurry in furtive steps down another row, back into the dungeon. I hear Rhogin hiss in irritation as he follows me.

When I find the cell, the four occupants are in goblin form, limp and lifeless on the ground. I dig in my pockets and fish out the little set of lock-picking tools I always carry with me and efficiently disable the lock. I exchange a look with Rhogin, who is standing, agitated, by the door, and push open the gate.

The occupants do not move, not even when I call out to them.

Someone else does, however.

* * *

 **A/N: Getting a little darker now! Sorry if you guys thought this story was just only P+S fluff (as if I'd do that to you!)**

 **Plus S+R are reunited, which makes my heart sing.**


	18. Chapter 17

Six armed goblin guards materialize out of the shadows, along with one very ugly, very angry goblin team leader dressed, as Rhogin had been earlier, in a robe. They see Rhogin first, because I am in the cell, and I decide to stay hidden and watch. I daren't draw my sword without the sound giving me away, so I rest my hand on the hilt, gleeful that it is no longer the useless grass harvester from the stables. I am prepared to fight my way out; somehow, I'm not confident that these goblins will bow down to their Crown Prince and let us by.

But Rhogin speaks first.

"Mother!" He exclaims, surprised and relieved.

Oh. That ugly team leader . . . he . . . is a _she_ . . . and . . . oh, heck.

"Son." Ugly Team Leader/Queen Goblin's voice is like a chain smoker's with emphysema.

"You've seen what Father's done?" Rhogin asks her.

UTL/QG sneers.

Not a good sign. Rhogin's confidence falters.

"Of course," she wheezes. "I'm overseeing it. _You_ were supposed to, but you failed us. You cannot see past your own nose, foolish boy. You lack your father's foresight! His wisdom! His strategy! Speaking of which, how did you get out? Ah. You had help. An intruder."

With a flick of her head, she's noticed me, and the guards automatically reach into the cell and grab me. Others grab Rhogin and hold him fast. They are so quick that I don't even have the time to draw my sword.

"Mother! Don't do this!" Rhogin pleads, struggling against his captors. "Father shouldn't have done this! It's wrong! He cannot force these creatures to turn -"

UTL/QG hits him viciously across the face. As he reels, she speaks sentences - guttural and hissy - that I don't understand. Rhogin's expression changes from bewilderment to shock to fear as he first replies, then entreats, his body language making clear to me what their conversation does not.

As one, the guards march us to the staircase, which they force us to climb. Rhogin attempts to bargain with his mother again, but she strikes him once more and he falls silent. I stare at her back and feel a childish triumph when I imagine Rhogin stealing the elixir from her.

 _"Take that, witch."_ I mentally text her.

It becomes clear that we are leaving this wing - the goblins take us back out to the sunny courtyard, and then half-drag us to the West Wing, which seems almost identical to the South, both in layout and dismal spartan decor. We climb more stairs that take us to the topmost floor. Here, they lead us to a set of ornate doors, flanked by more brutish goblins-in-arms, a scene much like that outside Rhogin's own chamber.

Except that the golden ostentatiousness of the whole set up - from the decor to the intimidating guards - suggests that someone important lives here, and that he/she is _not_ a prisoner.

The guards acknowledge the UTL/QG and usher us through on spear-point.

And into the presence of the stuff of nightmares.

The room is opulent in the traditional way - gilded frames and tapestries on the walls, high ceiling, chandeliers, a fireplace, upholstery in rich textures and hues. Windows open to the sunlight, now a rosy gold as evening approaches. Guards stand at each corner, and along one wall - completely out of place - is a low corral containing dogs of various breeds. The animals are agitated, pacing and whining softly.

Whoever lives here must like their pets caged, I think.

A creature now moves about the room. I don't notice it at first, not only because it was standing almost stationary near the hearth, but also because it was so slight in form. It is a goblin, and yet not quite. Bald, wrinkled and shriveled, like a lab specimen laid out to dry, its skin shifts color and tone as it slides over desiccated muscle and bone. When it turns to observe us, its face is frighteningly human - for all of five seconds. Then it melts, like pooling wax, into a montage of new features - goblin eyes and goblin teeth and goblin ears and the sneering, twitching air holes that pass for a goblin nose. It pulls itself to its full height - slightly taller than a man - and I realize my error in thinking it was anything but powerful.

This must be Gurdach, the Goblin King - demented mad scientist, insane megalomaniac and psychotic mind manipulator.

I have a very bad feeling this is only going to get worse.

UTL/QG says something in her unfathomable language and pushes Rhogin forward. Gurdach does not speak, only stares at his dishonored son, the prodigal forced to his knees. He gazes coolly back at his wife, then looks at me. UTL/QG obliges, providing a rundown of (I am guessing) what transpired in the dungeon. The King listens, then looks at the posse of guards.

Immediately, they stand down, leaving the four main players - the fractured royal family and the interloper - centerstage.

Finally, he speaks.

"Sabrina Grimm." His voice, unlike his wife's, is articulate and smooth, and I am startled that he knows my name. I don't remember giving it to the UTL/QG, and I can't imagine that Rhogin, while verbally sparring with his mother, had had the wherewithal to throw in an introduction.

I stare back, determined not to show how nervous I really am. I have a sudden urge to drop my gaze, and I do.

"How did you get into my home?" He purrs.

I don't answer. I don't want to give Puck away. Where is he, anyway? This was supposed to be his recon. wing.

Gurdach's eyes narrow slightly as he regards me. It is almost as if he is listening. Then he whips his head toward Rhogin.

"There is another!" He hisses. "How did they get in?"

I swear in my head - he knows about Puck.

Rhogin, now on his feet, bites his lip and says nothing, but his face is pained from the effort of concentrating, enduring.

He is fighting something, I realize. His father must be doing something to his mind.

Gurdach turns towards me, and he is smiling.

It is not a nice smile.

"This one is important to you," he murmurs in wonder to his son, his eyes still on me. "A human! Interesting." He walks to me and takes my arm in an iron grip, long fingers wrapping around my flesh like a living tourniquet. Warning bells go off in my head - my natural instinct about strangers invading my personal space, and Puck's voice: _don't let them touch you_.

I try to fling off his hand, and I say, "Let me go!" even though I know it is useless.

"One of you will tell me how you got in," he says calmly, as if he is giving instructions to kindergarteners on how to take turns on the playground swings, rather than threatening our lives, "or I will take it from you myself."

Suddenly, there is a commotion in the animal pen. The dogs are agitated, restlessly moving about and whining even more loudly.

Then, fluidly, one of them turns into Puck.

Even the King is caught off-guard, because in seconds, Puck has stepped out of the corral and crossed the distance between his hiding place and us. He avoids looking at me.

"It was me, Your Majesty," he admits, a look of practiced boredom on his face. "I thought I'd pay you a visit. Between monarchs, you know."

He looks pointedly at Rhogin, who has marshaled his astonishment behind an expression to match Puck's.

"I invited them, Father," Rhogin says lazily, sighing loudly after his confession, as if it were a secret he was loathe to surrender to his overprotective parents.

Gurdach takes the bait. "How? All access to and from your rooms has been forbidden. Including servants who might have carried a message."

Rhogin stares boldly at his father. "Exactly. I didn't care for being denied social privileges and interactions. So I texted Puck. It's a modern way of communication - uses the airwaves; no need for servants or carrier pigeons and whatnot. You remember Puck, Father: we used to play together as children when you visited Oberon."

Gurdach says nothing, only frowns. He is clearly not well-informed in the area of technology, and Rhogin must know this.

Puck continues, keeping eye contact with Rhogin, "He would've tweeted an open-house invite, he was so lonely."

"But there was no way I could've squeezed the address in the 140-character limit."

"Let alone the driving directions."

I gape, aghast that these boys would be so flippant in the face of such obvious danger, before it occurs to me that they are distracting the King, as they had done when they were children.

Except that this time, it is not a game any more than this is a playdate between princes.

Gurdach glances between the two - the Goblin Crown Prince and the King of Faerie, both of whom stare blithely back at him - and hesitates. Then, as if a thought hits him, he shrugs and says, "It doesn't matter. You're here and you can't leave, so we might as well make you comfortable. Well. . ." he regards me dismissively, "not you, I'm afraid. I have no use for humans. Too weak. The earlier ones didn't survive the process."

He turns back to Puck with barely repressed greed. "A fairy, on the other hand, I do have use for. And if the King of Faerie himself were to drop in of his own accord. . . well, I can hardly refuse him, can I?"

Puck's eyes narrow. As much as he has been spouting frivolities, I know him well enough to see that his body is wound tight as a coiled spring. He is on edge, watching to see if the tides turn. Rhogin's posture - straight and tense - hints that he is on alert as well.

Without warning, all the guards, from their various stations in the room, animate and converge on Puck, while simultaneously, UTL/QG grabs Rhogin and I find myself once more in the grip of the King. It couldn't have been better orchestrated if had it been choreographed beforehand; Gurdach's mind control is indeed a formidable weapon.

The Goblin King's tone is hard as he says, "I tire of this game. I will find out myself why you're really here."

He pulls me closer to him and I watch his other hand descend on my head.

Puck yells, "NO!" as Rhogin shouts, "Father! Don't!"

And my mind explodes in a kaleidoscope of lights and pain.

Scenes flash before my eyes at breakneck speed - skulking in the tunnel in Disneyworld, lounging on the bed in the hotel, the plane ride, Uncle Jake, the night skirmish with Knobloch's gang, Skype sessions with Marian, meeting with Rhogin in Leicester, dinner at home with Mom, Dad, Daphne and Basil, group meetings with my Psych classmates, customers at the bookstore, takeout in Bradley's apartment - time flowing backward through my life, familiar memories and events and emotions seamlessly rolling into consciousness.

But there are unfamiliar scenes, too - settings which feel completely foreign, feelings I've never experienced, people who are strangers, playing out situations that are like dreams: dancing with my Dad at a ball I've never attended, deep exhilaration and pleasure in the arms of someone I cannot touch, being examined by a face I don't recognize, feeling sorrow and loss sharper than any knife, more crippling even than when Granny Relda had died. I am in all of them, but they have never been in me.

All while pain courses through my skull like lightning, setting my senses on fire. In my agony, I barely notice that I am falling, and that it is only Gurdach's spindly fingers on my arm that hold me up.

Then, suddenly, my mind folds inward like a funnel, siphoning the images through a sinkhole that shrinks as it sucks down and in.

The pain disappears.

But not before I am assaulted once more by another round of strange images. They are angry and fearful, darker emotions to accompany frightening snapshots of insatiable greed, a consuming lust for power, and the cold, flat disdain for _enough_.

These do not belong to me - I am looking into _someone else's_ consciousness, and it is a cesspool of living madness.

I feel an energy like a thunderclap - abrupt, a massive surge that swells and recedes - and the darkness dissipates, as a putrid vapor evanesces in a puff of fresh air.

I am falling. I feel the ground connect solidly with my hip and leg, but it doesn't hurt, not in the aftermath of the assault on my mind.

There is screaming, and yelling, and my eyes are leaden but I force them open, just so that, if there is catastrophe around me, I will be aware, I can move to safety, I can pull someone along with me.

Gurdach is no longer holding my arm. Or even near me.

He is on the far side of the room, slumped on the floor, collapsed into the half-broken walls of the animal corral, trying to get up while the dogs, having escaped, run amok, barking and snapping at anyone who comes near. Gurdach shakes his head at them and, as one, they fall, limp, to the ground. In the silence following, he staggers to his feet and glares at me.

Puck is fighting off the guards, and Rhogin is defensively trying to subdue his mother without hurting her.

I want to tell the Prince to man up, already - she is no lady worth protecting; she is a tyrant in every way that her husband is.

But Gurdach is coming for me again, and so I face him.

"What did you do to me?" He is shouting, enraged. "What is this power you have?"

What he is saying makes no sense to me, but I don't want him near me again, and I certainly don't want his hands anywhere near my head, so I hold out my own in the universal Stop gesture, and scream at him that I will do it again if he comes any closer.

He seems to believe me, because he halts and bares his teeth in a snarl instead. "No one has ever been able to resist me before! It is not possible! What kind of magus are you? Where did you learn your craft?"

What in high heaven is he saying?

I stare at Puck and Rhogin in bewilderment, but they are still occupied with their respective captors. For a few ridiculous seconds, the King and I are at a stalemate, each watching the other, until Puck finally overpowers the multiple guards and emerges unmolested, his sword (pilfered, like mine, from a careless guard) dripping with their insides.

He points its tip at UTL/GQ and snarls at her to let Rhogin go. Gurdach roars something at her and she lunges for Puck, completely disregarding the weapon leveled at her.

"No! Don't kill her!" Rhogin's shout sounds above the stream of glottal curses she rains down on Puck as she moves.

"Why do you care?" Puck calls back, "She's a nutcase AND she's trying to kill us both!"

He dodges her arms as Rhogin pleads, "Because she's not . . . this is not who she is. Gurdach is controlling her! Puck, she wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"Yeah, right," Puck returns, beating off her continued attack on him, as the Prince hollers in desperation.

"No, Puck! Please! Don't . . .!"

Puck slashes with his sword and severs her hand cleanly at the wrist. It lands with a soft thud on the carpet.

And the Goblin Queen finally stops, and sinks to the floor, cradling her bleeding stump.

Rhogin yells and rushes to her. Gurdach, unaffected and disinterested, turns away from his injured wife and fixes his stare once again on me. Puck stands, breathing heavily, his sword still aimed at the creature he'd just -literally -disarmed.

Rhogin turns a look on him that is both fury and agony. "What have you done, Puck?"

"I didn't _kill_ her," he defends himself, still on his battle high. "I'm sorry, Rhogin. _She_ was going to kill _you_. And me. Whoever she was before she turned all crazy assassin, that's not who's in this room with us. If anyone's to blame, it's your father, and you know it. Just look at him. He doesn't even care."

Rhogin holds his mother, who is a crumpled heap in his arms, his eyes now downcast, pointedly refusing to gaze in his father's direction. But he doesn't dispute Puck, who watches them with pity.

Then Puck turns to look at me, the first time since I'd entered the room.

"Way to go, Grimm. Didn't know you had it in you."

"What did I do?" I want desperately to ask, but don't, because it would totally blow my Powerful Magus image. So I say nothing, and continue the staring match with the Goblin King. I wonder how long we will drag this on for, caught in each other's cross-hairs and not daring to be the first to move. I try to remember if goblins become more or less powerful after sunset.

Or maybe those were the orcs. In the movies.

I am wrong, of course - that Gurdach wasn't daring to do anything. And especially that he wouldn't be making the first move.

And the second. And third.

They come unseen to the door, goblin guards by the dozens, commanded in silence by the will of the King. In seconds, we are disarmed and bound, even Rhogin and the Goblin Queen, now placid and retreating. Gurdach, it seems, must have lost interest in wielding her as a puppet. I actually feel sorry for her.

Puck is still scowling and struggling in his bonds, so he does not notice the special preparations being made for him until he is forced from behind to the ground, by three massive goblins who flip him onto his back and sit on his chest and limbs, while another two force open his mouth.

Then I am screaming as other goblins drag me to the window, screaming because I remember what had happened in the dungeons, screaming because I can do nothing but watch, screaming so loudly that I don't even realize I am being lifted over the sill and tossed out into the air, to be sent hurtling to the ground four stories below.


	19. Chapter 18

Once again, I am falling.

I've fallen before. Once, when I was on a water tower, Puck nudged me off with a water cannon. In the nick of time, I grew a tail (thanks, Puck) which, like a prehensile limb, fortuitously found a handhold and bungee-corded me to safety.

Another time, trying to stop a megalomaniac from ruining the universe, I fell off a hot air balloon. Puck, all heroic, had caught me and hadn't even rubbed it in that, once again, he'd had to save me.

Then there was one particularly awkward flight, hanging onto Puck's foot. We were having one of our world-class arguments about me being a wimp and he being right. And, because I was sleep-deprived from worrying about how everyone's lives depended on me saving them, I'd let go. Puck had saved me (again), but that time, he hadn't been happy about it. By then, I'd begun to suspect that he might actually have been serious about not wanting me to die. Granny and everyone else were convinced it was because he had a crush on me, but this was debatable - between the tricks and the insults, it was hard to tell if he'd actually liked me or if he'd just wanted to get as much mileage as possible from his best pranking target.

Over the years, I'd fallen quite a few times more. Some, like those earlier instances, were the hazards of an investigative-cum-crime-fighting vocation that took me to unusual places, some of which were literally at lofty elevations from which it was sickeningly easy to lose one's balance and topple over the edge.

Fortunately, Puck was usually there to prevent nasty accidents (of which he made a point to inform everyone).

But some were the direct result of flying with Puck himself, who thought it amusing to drop me just for - as he'd called it - the thrill of the sensation of free-fall. He'd always caught me, and by then, I'd taken for granted that Puck was always stronger- and quicker - than gravity, and I'd actually learned to enjoy it.

Of course, there was also the bonus of landing in his arms, which led to hugging, which led to . . . other things, which, in those days, was an arrangement with which we were both mutually happy.

Unfortunately, this time wasn't going to turn out as well.

For one thing, there was the problem of my usual savior being incapacitated by evil creatures trying to poison him.

For another, even if he weren't being held down and force-fed something vile, there was no way he could have flown out to catch me before I hit the ground. Not on such a short ride - if the laws of Physics were to be obeyed.

So I brace myself for a very hard landing, and pray that I'd be lucky enough to black out before I turned pancake on the dusty dirt of Goblintown. At least I'm still bound - the damage might be slightly better contained this way.

I wish I'd said goodbye to Puck, though. And told him how I'd have chosen him all over again.

I close my eyes.

And hit something warm and soft and strong.

And hear the beat of wings on the air.

Before we hit the ground in an ungracious tumble and tangle of limbs.

Puck?

I open my eyes.

Not Puck.

It is the fairy from the dungeon.

Somehow, he is here. And, somehow, he has saved me.

"My Lady!" He says, out of breath (my fault, no doubt). "Are you alright?"

"Yes, thanks to you!" I exclaim in all kinds of relief, and hug him before I actually think about what I am doing. "You escaped!"

He sits up, fanning away the clouds of dust disturbed by our landing. I imagine that he'd caught me inches from death, like a safety cushion, and the impact had forced us both to the ground immediately after.

"Yes. Thanks to _you_ leaving the door unlocked. It was a while before I felt myself enough to leave the dungeon. Right away, I saw you falling from the sky. I flew up, but I did not catch you in time to avoid the ground completely. Forgive me."

" _Forgive_ you? For what? You _saved_ me!"

He smiles and colors slightly, his piercing blue eyes bright in the sunshine. I notice a small scar like a star under one brow. I wonder what sort of injury could cause a scar of that shape.

"I was just doing my duty, My Lady. And it is the least I could do after you freed me."

"What is your name?" I ask.

"Oriel."

I want to ask him about this _My Lady_ nonsense, but something more urgent comes to mind.

"I didn't free you, Oriel." I say, sadly. "Not in time, anyway. They gave you that . . . whatever it was they made you drink. And you turned into . . . a . . . "

"Yes, I did. But it has stopped now. I feel myself again. Perhaps it was only temporary."

I somehow don't think so, but I don't want to dash his hopes. Not until I know for sure what the experiments are for.

I hear a noise from above and I look up. Puck is shouting at us from the window from which I was so unceremoniously pitched, and he is floating down now to join us. I am enveloped in his arms and I feel the thump-thump-thump of his heart against mine.

"I thought I'd lost you this time," he whispers into my hair, holding me fiercely, not caring that we have an audience.

My own voice, when I answer, is shaky. "Me, too. Did you…"

I don't dare finish my question: _did you drink it_?

He shakes his head. "Morons. I turned into a snake and slithered out. Easy. But not soon enough to save you, though."

He notices Oriel at last, and his eyes widen, as do Oriel's, beholding his King.

"Your Majesty!" Oriel goes down on one knee.

"No. Get up. Get up." Puck drags him to his feet. "You saved Grimm. You don't get to bow and do that groveling thing."

Oriel is still in shock. "How are you here, Sire? And you, My Lady? How are you both here? I thought. . ."

"Long story. But I should ask the same of you," Puck interrupts him hurriedly.

A little _too_ hurriedly, I think. There is clearly an interesting tale behind this, but now is not the time for it. We need to escape.

"Puck," I push us apart. "We need to get out ASAP. Let's just go while we can. Where is Rhogin? Is he okay?

"I didn't stop to ask after him. I was kinda rushing out to stop you from, you know, dying?" He rolls his eyes, slightly put out.

At that moment, I hear the drum of footsteps on the stairs, and voices announcing the arrival of a rather large party from the upper room. Puck pulls me to him, preparing to fly. He turns to Oriel, "You should probably come, too."

But before we can lift off, Oriel suddenly curls in on himself and shudders in pain, his mouth open in a gasp. My blood runs cold, knowing what will follow, and my heart aches with sorrow for him.

Puck, completely oblivious, stares at him before asking, "What's wrong with you?"

In the time it takes for me to find a decent opening statement, Oriel has become a goblin.

Puck stares at him, wild-eyed.

"You're. . . we're . . . we're not supposed to be able to do that," he whispers in horror.

Oriel, having shed all vestiges of his Fae heritage along with the honor of his kind, lunges at Puck and closes his hands around Puck's neck. Puck chokes and flings his own hands to his throat, trying to pry the fingers off. I fight down my better nature as I hit not-Oriel on the head with my fists, raking my nails across his bald scalp.

When this doesn't work, I kick his side, harder than I want, but less viciously than I should.

He screeches and releases Puck, then pulls me down and claws my face. I turn away, defending myself with my hands and arms, but suddenly, he falls forward onto me, heavy and still. He twitches once, and does not move.

Puck drags him off me in a smear of blood. His face is hard as he sheathes his sword, then lifts me in his arms into the air, leaving below us the bleeding body of my rescuer in the company of guards that have descended from the Goblin King's chambers. As we rise past his windows, I see Gurdach watching us, a sneer on his face.

I do not see Rhogin, or his mother. I hope he still lives.

* * *

We shelter in a cave. It is a hole gouged out of the side of a hill that faces away from the castle, and Puck flew through several copses of trees before we found it, but I still feel exposed, as if the all-seeing inner eye of the Goblin King is aware of where we are. Puck says the king's mental prowess has a short range, particularly on non-goblins, which is why he needs to be touching his victims in order to fully access their minds.

"We'll be safe for a while here," he assures me. "But don't get too comfortable; we're going to move as soon as Rhogin gets here."

"Rhogin? He's coming here? And why aren't we heading straight back through the trod to our own world where the crazies can't find us?"

"Rhogin is going to meet us here. He wants to talk. He was the one who told me about this cave."

" _Wants to talk_? Like, 'Oh, hey, I had a really bad day at home because my Dad went psycho on everyone, including Mom. I think I need a shoulder to cry on. Do you want to meet for coffee? I know a great cave.' "

"Chill, Grimm. Guys don't cry on each other's shoulders, duh. This is more like a strategic discussion. He sounded serious - and pissed - when he asked to meet us."

"And how do we know it's not a trap?"

"Because I know Rhogin. He's hated and feared his father forever. But he tries to stay civil and keep the peace for the sake of his mother."

"Who is a raving lunatic."

"Yeah, well, that was Gurdach's doing. And anyway, Rhogin would sooner turn against his own father than do his bidding."

"Coerced, he would, though. Gurdach could be using him to get to us."

Puck arches his eyebrow at me. "Yes, he could, but he's not."

"And you know this. . . how?"

"Because Gurdach almost killed him, which you missed because you were busy falling to your own death outside the window. He only escaped because his mother stepped between them and took the blow for him."

"Is she . . .?"

"She's dead."

I have nothing left to say.

"And besides," Puck continues, staring out of the cave entrance, watching, "Rhogin _is_ able to resist his father's control. He's royalty, too, and he has some measure of this skill. Not as much as the King, but he's not bad. Unlike his mother, who doesn't have an ounce of royal blood in her and has no resistance at all. She was one of the concubines Gurdach especially liked, and he promoted her to Queen just because. She was a commoner before."

My head has begun to pound again, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the pain.

"By the way, Grimm," Puck sounds impressed, "That was some kick-ass move you pulled back there, throwing Gurdach against the wall."

"I don't know what happened," I tell him. "I definitely didn't push him myself, I mean. I wouldn't even know how. All I remember was that it really hurt when he touched my head, and then there were those pictures. And then suddenly, there was like. . . like a surge, and the pain stopped and I opened my eyes and there he was, surrounded by those dogs. And I had no idea how he got there."

"Your head still hurt?" Puck asks.

"Yeah. But nothing like when he was touching it. What was he doing - reading my thoughts?"

"Well, he certainly wasn't lulling you to sleep. Oh, here he is!"

For a moment, I panic, because I think Puck means Gurdach, but it is only Rhogin, scrambling up the hillside and climbing into the cave, still in his goblin form. His clothes are slashed and streaked with dried blood, as are the sword and dagger strapped on each side of his body. It seems he has had to fight his way out to get to this meeting, but he does not seem injured. Puck and I watch him in silence, waiting for him to speak.

"Puck. Sabrina Grimm." He sounds as formal as ever, even half-dead and covered in the filth of battle. "Thank you for waiting. I must apologize for my appearance. My departure from the castle was met with some er. . . obstacles."

Puck warily regards him. "These obstacles . . . they didn't follow you here, by any chance?"

"No. They're dead. I made sure of it." Rhogin morphs into his much better-looking human form, explaining, "This is probably easier for you."

Puck sniffs. "No difference. You're still ugly as a cow's backside. What did you want to meet us for?"

Rhogin glances from Puck to me and takes a deep breath.

"I'm going to overthrow my father."

We stand and stare at each other for a second or two.

Then Puck cackles, sarcasm oozing from every pore. "Oh, excuse me! For a moment, I could've sworn that sounded like yesterday's news."

Rhogin scowls as he continues. "I know I've been saying that since we were children, but I'm dead serious now that I've seen what he's planning to do. I have a secret weapon - an elixir that raises the dead. I am going to raise an undead army with it. My father will not be able to control their minds because, well, they won't have any. It's the only way. Sabrina is aware of this - I revealed this to her in strict confidence in your absence at our lunch meeting in Leicester. Perhaps she hasn't told you. . .?"

Puck keeps his face impassive and superior as he says, "Sabrina and I tell each other _everything_. Because, you know, we're _engaged_. So yes, _of course_ I know about this elixir. Can't say that I think it's going to work and besides, if you're planning to raise a big enough army to take on the ruddy _King_ , you'd better have enough of it to fill a lake."

I want to stomp on Puck's foot for being annoying and petty and harping on our fake engagement when the main issue is clearly far more critical. Rhogin must be thinking the same because he narrows his eyes in disbelief at Puck's childishness. Then he shakes his head and explains his plan.

"I don't actually have to raise the whole army. I've done some research and am relatively sure that I just need to raise a captain; he'll command his soldiers and I, in turn, can command him through the elixir's power. Which is just as well, because I only have about a single dose left."

"Well, good luck finding one dead guy with medals on his chest in a graveyard of other dead guys with medals on their chests." Puck snorts. "But I still don't get what you need us for. Clearly not moral support because -look - I'll be honest and say it: your battle plan stinks."

"That's exactly the help I need from you -" Rhogin ignores Puck's barb, "- to find the captain."

Puck arches one eyebrow. "Ignoring for the moment _why_ I would even want to help you, _how_ would I do that?"

"Fairies are sensitive to magic. You can detect changes in magic fields and life forces and the presence of ley lines and power centers and things like that, can't you? You'd be able to find a graveyard full of dead soldiers, as you said, and pick out the captain from among them."

"And goblins can't?" I interject. The pounding in my head is getting worse, and I'm seeing flashbacks of the dark impressions I had while under Gurdach's power. I notice a continuity to them the longer they are accessible to me, and they are starting to have contexts, to make sense - I am beginning to see inside Gurdach's head, privy to his plans of war.

"No, they can't. We aren't magical beings the same way Fae are. We are builders and makers and we are powerful with potions and poisons and weaponry but we have very limited magic. I couldn't sense a dead guy if he were right in front of me, but Puck could."

"Because he would smell so bad," Puck says, "that you wouldn't need magic for that, stupid."

Rhogin turns back to Puck. "You saw what he did to that fairy on the ground, didn't you? My father is turning different Everafters into goblins. It shouldn't be possible and yet he's found a way. But that's not the worst of it. The change isn't one-off; he's making it so that they can turn back and forth. Do you know why?"

Puck shakes his head and Rhogin opens his mouth to enlighten him.

But at that moment, my head splits apart again and I gasp at the new images I'm seeing: Gurdach's thoughts, his plans.

I barely register that I've fallen to the ground and that the two bickering Everafters have stopped bickering and are now discussing me.

". . . my father's done. . . strange. . . shouldn't be like this . . ."

". . .make it stop . . . brain will blow up. . . help her, you useless piece of trash!"

" . . . not supposed to . . . harmless . . . don't know . . ."

" . . . get her out of here . . . trod . . ."

The pain stops suddenly, as if there is a switch in my brain which someone's flicked from "Agony" to "Off".

I sit up, abruptly aware that I have been writhing on the dusty floor of the cave. Two anxious faces peer at me, as astonished at my sudden recovery as I am. But I don't bother to reassure them that I am no longer in pain - I have something more important to talk about.

"It's infiltration," I pant out. "Gurdach is infiltrating every Everafter kingdom with his mutants. He's taking them from every species, giving them that awful potion that turns them into goblins, except they won't always be stuck as goblins. They can switch back and forth, like a disguise, and he can trigger when. And when they're in goblin form, he can also control them. He's going to send them back to their own kingdoms as spies, without actually realizing they're spies, and they're going to betray their own people and help him from the inside. They have no choice. That's what all the prisoners are for, and why they're so many different kinds."

Puck has a look of growing horror on his face as he listens, too stunned even to interrupt me with a snide remark.

Rhogin, on the other hand, looks grim and resigned, as if this were not news to him. He says nothing, only sighs and clenches his jaw.

"What?" Puck finally speaks. "I don't believe it. Nobody can do that. And _you_ know this because . . . ?" His eyes narrow in suspicion as he looks between Rhogin and me.

"Don't be an idiot, Puck," I brush off his unspoken accusation. "Gurdach got into my head and somehow I got into his, too. Don't ask me how. I don't know. But I saw his plans. And those are them."

"I concur," Rhogin says heavily. "I didn't put two and two together until just today, seeing the dungeons and the prisoners and connecting that to what he's been hinting at the past months. I thought he was just torturing the prisoners, which was heinous in itself. But I . . . I didn't know he . . . it . . . I didn't know it was part of this plan. And it isn't just other Everafters; he's sending goblins - _our_ goblins - on suicide missions: capturing prisoners, slaughtering villages. Look, Puck, I know there isn't a lot of love between Fae and Goblinkind, but they're my people and if I don't stop him, we'll be wiped out. "

He shifts his focus to me, "I saw what he did to that fairy that saved you, Sabrina - he turned him and used him."

He turns back to Puck, "I'm sorry - he was one of yours."

Puck glares at him. "Yeah, he was. Your father's a freaking psychopath, Prince. If I were you, I'd have had him knocked off long ago."

A strange look crosses Rhogin's face - anger, and something else, something sad and weak. He balls his fists but when he speaks, his voice is quiet and low.

"Do you think I enjoy hating him, Puck? Don't you think I'd have preferred a father I could love? Be proud of? Who didn't treat my mother - _his wife_ \- like dirt? Who didn't hate his own son and tell him constantly that he was a failure?"

Puck is uncharacteristically quiet, his own face dark with emotion as he looks away into the distance. I remember his explosive rant at Oberon's funeral long ago, when there'd only been the two of us and he'd let his guard down and been the most honest and vulnerable that he'd ever been since we'd met. He takes a couple of deep breaths, exhaling slowly, and when he turns his eyes to Rhogin's, they simply stare at each other for a long moment, not speaking.

Something passes in that look between the two crown princes, each the heir to his kingdom, whose fathers have cut them down as boys so that as men, they feel unworthy of it.

When they break the contact, and Puck at last speaks, he does not apologize, does not commiserate, does not even acknowledge Rhogin's confession. They may share the same demons, but it seems Puck will not bow to them, for he says instead, "So . . . you want me to help you start a civil war. Put that way, it's awesome. Where do we find this dead army?"

Rhogin allows the smallest smile to dance across his face before he reins it in. It transforms his features and reminds me of how easily I'd been charmed when we were together in London. I catch Puck's eye on me - he looks positively livid - and look away, grinning.

But now Rhogin is talking in earnest, explaining about two massive historic goblin battles that resulted in thousands of dead soldiers who lay where they fell on the battlefield. He tells Puck the locations, which I've never heard of, but Puck nods - he knows them.

"I'm certain there are captains among them," Rhogin continues. "Those were particularly violent battles. Hardly any survivors, and for many, many years, the realm was desolate. It took migrant goblin settlers, and several generations at that, to repopulate the kingdom."

"Can you detect er . . . corpses that've been dead so long?" I ask Puck, repressing the thought that this is a very surreal and bizarre, not to mention morbid, undertaking.

"Age doesn't matter," he replies loftily. "It's the ground, the earth, the points of magic, as Rhogin said. I read them, and they'll tell me where lives have been lost. The more lives, the stronger the magic, because the lives are tied to the earth."

"Tied to the earth? What about. . . you know . . . heaven and hell?"

"For goblins?" Rhogin laughs bitterly. "Heaven is a fairytale to us. No, when we die, we're tied to the earth forever."

"Unless some lunatic resurrects you." Puck looks pointedly at Rhogin.

"Then you're tied to that lunatic," Rhogin smugly finishes.

"Sounds like hell to me," I say.

Puck grins. "She got you there, Prince."

Rhogin smiles again, and I automatically blush, cursing his magnetic influence.

Puck and Rhogin continue discussing possible ways to get to these battlefield grounds and I let my thoughts drift, thankful for a brief respite from the constant fleeing-for-our-lives. I'm considering the pros and cons of accompanying the guys to resurrect dead soldiers when my head is, once again, hijacked.

Gurdach, in his throne room, is dispatching his soldiers to find more prisoners to turn into spies. I see them hurrying out of the castle to carry out his order, and feel his sense of urgency as he sends them to the ogres, the witches, the trolls, the sprites, the fairies, the pixies, the merpeople, the beasts, and every other kind of Everafter except humans. I sense his confidence, his drive, his absolute certainty that this will work, his perverse excitement that this will take the Everafter world by surprise, and guarantee overwhelming victory.

My mind is on fire as I channel his psyche. My breaths are noisy gasps in my own ears, and I curl up into myself, aware only of the starburst of lights behind my eyes and the pain of discordant consciousnesses fighting within a single mental space.

Arms are wrapped around me, lifting me up. Frantic, fragmented discussions flit in and out of hearing: _Disneyworld, Faerie, Daphne, ley lines, delaying Gurdach, trods, dungeons, potions, meeting again with you when Sabrina is taken care of_.

Then: airborne, the wind rushing by me, a dark tunnel with colorful lights, people screaming, children crying, Puck swearing and muttering about forgetful dust, the cool, clean air of our world and, over everything, punctuating shouts to Look At The Flying Man Carrying A Girl In The Sky.

* * *

 **A/N: Another fave chapter! Mostly because I got to explore the repercussions of Oberon's parenting style on P's identity, but also P's friendship with R. I absolutely love those two boys together, and all the alpha-male nonsense that goes on between them. They are a total hoot to write.**

 **But. . . Oriel. Sniff.**


	20. Chapter 19

I remember Granny's funeral.

Held outdoors under a sky the color of a robin's egg, it was an incongruently beautiful day for saying goodbye.

Daphne was beside me, looking very young and very out of character in the somber colors of mourning. She wept openly, unselfconsciously. Mom and Dad - his arm around her - stood on her other side, both solemn and still, their faces bleached and lined with weariness. In front of them was Basil, his head nearly level with theirs, Mom's hand on his arm.

Uncle Jake stood next to them, his usual many-pocketed-coat exchanged for a formal black blazer, his eyes red-rimmed and sad.

Canis and Red stood beyond him, her hand on the old man's elbow. You'd never have recognized Red - and not only because she wasn't in her usual scarlet coat - she'd grown into a beautiful, serious girl, never quite merry but with an unexpected warmth and sense of humor for someone who'd been through as much as she had. Canis (or Tobias, as we now knew him) had aged aggressively, as if the years spent as the Wolf had slowed the natural course of time and his body was now catching up with a vengeance. He watched the service out of tired eyes, mourning the woman who had been his best -and only- friend in his darkest seasons, wearing his grief in the slump of his shoulders and the tremble of his limbs.

There were other friends present - mortals and immortals - all whom Granny had helped and welcomed and cared for. She'd been champion to so many, and they were here to remember what she'd meant to them.

On my other side was Bradley, sporting a fresh haircut and a neatly-trimmed goatee, holding my hand. _Solid and safe._

Puck was not there, lost to me and to the rest of us who'd loved him, wandering who-knows-where in those shadow years.

I glanced over at Daphne, envious of her tears while mine remained trapped, unwilling to flow, unready to release me from the knots inside. Like all of us (except Bradley) Granny had been handed her life to keep but she'd chosen to let it go so she could be with the man she loved. We were happy for her, we'd said. We'd understood her decision and supported her fully, we'd said. We knew Grandpa Basil would be more than over the moon to see her again, we'd said.

What we _didn't_ say was that we didn't feel we could go on without her. Or that we'd miss her so painfully it would be a miracle if we could even be glad for Grandpa's gain. Or that it was unfair and cruel of her to leave us when we were so clearly _not_ ready to stop needing her.

I'd read that expected deaths - like Granny's, which we'd known was coming - were in some aspects more merciful to the survivors than the abrupt and often premature variants that followed accidents, murders, or sudden illness. Be thankful for the time to process the loss beforehand, the research had preached; there is resolution in saying goodbye and settling scores and tying up loose ends. Granny had been positive and gracious and an absolute pillar of strength in her last months. She'd had long conversations with each of us, she'd given us special treasures from among her possessions (most of them would be distributed according to her will, she'd conceded, but these were especially significant and she'd wanted to present them personally), and she'd let us broach anything we'd needed to: our sadness, our fear, even our selfish pleas for her to change her mind and stay a little longer.

"Oh, liebling," she'd said to me. "When your time comes, you'll understand. I am sad to leave you, but I must. Yes, it's about Grandpa, because I've missed him so much and it's been hard to be fully myself without him here. I lost a little bit of me when he died, you know. And it was so sudden. I had so much I still wanted to say to him and do with him. But it's also just . . . the right time. It's hard to explain it any better. You must trust that you can move on and find a wonderful life waiting for you. There are so many things to live for, Sabrina! And _people_ to live for! Remember how you came to me - you and Daphne? After Grandpa died, that was one of the best days of my life. I was so excited in the car with Canis, going to meet you at the train station. That horrid social worker couldn't have kept me away if she'd unleashed a jabberwocky!"

She'd asked me about Puck.

"I know it's a sensitive topic, liebling," she'd prefaced the conversation, "But I don't have much time and so I get to ask whatever I want. Have you heard from him?"

And I'd let it out - the shock and shame of being abandoned, the misery of having deeply loved and massively lost, the anger of not knowing why, not knowing when, not knowing how. After, I'd said, "But I have Bradley now. And Puck can go to hell."

But I hadn't meant it, and Granny knew. She'd held me and whispered, "That boy doesn't know what he's lost. I still believe he's better than that. Maybe he has his own demons, child. We all do. Be patient with him. Perhaps for an Everafter who's lived for centuries, taking a few years off doesn't feel as long to him as it does to those of us left waiting. If it makes a difference, I know he loved you. Anyone could see it. Canis could tell even without seeing it."

Knowing someone loved you once makes even less sense when he leaves and never comes back.

I'd hugged Granny and tried not to feel my heart slowly collapse under the weight of her frailty. I didn't want her to be another person who left me.

I emerged from my reminiscence as the minister ended his homily and invited the family to share last words and throw handfuls of dirt on the casket in the grave. I remember very little of the specific things others said about Granny, only how the loss had settled like a deep ache where the words of the minister could not reach. When it was was my turn, Bradley squeezed my hand gently before releasing it to move his to my back, where it stayed as I reached down to gather and then toss the dark earth onto the last remains of my grandmother. I could only say, "I love you, Granny," before the tears finally came, overwhelming me. I shuddered in Bradley's arms, breaking, ricchocheting from losing Puck to letting go of Granny, to being ripped out of myself in that moment.

And Bradley held me, saying nothing, guessing nothing, being a rock while I rose and plummeted on the swells of loneliness and loss.

When it was over and the hugs apportioned among the appropriate friends and family members, along with promises to check up on us over the next few weeks, we got into our cars and drove to Granny's house, now without her in it. We sat silently in her living room, while donated casserole dishes of food grew cold on her dining table. Eventually, Bradley and I got up to leave.

Daphne walked us to the door. "He could at least have shown up," she said, under her breath.

If Bradley heard, he pretended he didn't.

"I don't want to talk about him," I replied, bone-weary.

"Sabrina," she began again, her eyes flitting to Bradley, who was slipping on his coat. "Don't break his heart. If you don't love him, tell him and end it. Puck was -"

"Don't say his name!" I hissed, anger rising in a burning rush. "I love Brad. _He_ is in the past. I don't care about _him_ anymore."

I managed to go without slamming the door.

In Bradley's apartment, I called Daphne while he was in the shower, and apologized for being ungentle with her.

Later, I pulled Bradley into bed with me. His eyes were wide and questioning, but I didn't meet them, only kissed him with my own eyes closed and let him take my thoughts to less painful places. Tonight I would step over the brink with him, I decided, because he was there for me today and every day since we'd first met, because he was wonderful and amazing and safe and _he stayed_ and I loved him for it. And because I wanted to choose him in a way that left no room for doubt.

But I couldn't.

And even while his skin was on mine and his hands were hesitating, I broke and wept against him, curling into a ball and heaving in soundless gasps. I told myself it was too soon from losing Granny, that I was mistaken about wanting to be distracted. But as Bradley held me and believed it, whispering, "Shhh. It's hard to lose someone you love," I agreed silently with him, even though my heart was far away, mourning not so much for the smell of cooking in a warm kitchen as for eyes the color of the leaves in spring.

* * *

This is not the hotel room in Florida.

It is, instead, the guest room in my parent's house in New York, where, with their simple proposition of a treasure hunt in London, this bizarre adventure had begun. How did I get here? More importantly, how long had I been asleep to get here all the way from Florida?

I sit up on the bed I've been lying on, slowly becoming aware that there are voices coming from outside the room. I wait, wondering if I should get up and go to them.

Then the door opens, and Daphne walks in. She rushes over and throws her arms around me.

"Sabrina!" She cries. "We were so worried. Are you okay?"

I stare at her. "What's going on? How did I get here?"

"She's okay!" Daphne calls back out the door. "She sounds okay!"

Dad enters the room with Mom. "Sabrina," he says, coming to sit on the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Why?" I reply, somewhat impatiently. "Wait, how did I get here? How long was I asleep?"

"So long that we were beginning to think I'd have to kiss you to wake you up!" A voice calls out from the doorway and Puck comes in, clean and bearing none of the traces of the dusty and bloody battle with the goblins.

I gape at him. "Get serious, Puck. What happened?"

"Well, let's see…" He obliges, stuffing his hands in his pockets and raising his eyes to the ceiling as if preparing a recitation. "You had one of your headaches and then you were half passed out and half delirious, which shouldn't be possible except you made it work, and I had to fly you out of that middle-of-nowhere dump that Rhogin calls home, and all through Disneyworld, which caused quite a lot of excitement, let me tell you, and then back to the hotel. By then, you were writhing like you were possessed, and screaming in pain, besides, so I Facetimed Marshmallow and let her see you and she freaked out and said to get ourselves back home ASAP which of course was ridiculous because we were in _Florida_ , for heaven's sake, and who knew when the next available flight was. So Marshmallow came to Florida instead with the Nome King's belt, which fortunately took only minutes, because you were still acting all Exorcist and showing no signs of tiring, and teleported us all back home so Bunny could take care of you."

I sit, stunned by Puck's recap, which he'd mouthed off without taking a breath.

"Bunny? As in Bunny-Lancaster-Mother-of-Snow-White Bunny?"

"How many other people do we know who are named after a rabbit?" Puck shoots back. "Yeah, that Bunny."

"What's she got to do with all of this?"

Mom, who hasn't spoken at all, only sat with her arm around me, finally says, "She's been keeping an eye on you, honey."

I eye my mother suspiciously. "Why?"

My mother purses her lips and looks at Dad. When neither of them answers, Daphne explodes into the awkwardness. "Oh, come on! She has a right to know!"

Then, turning to me, she says, "Sabrina, you've not been yourself. But it's not your fault. It's the magic. It's been changing you. Bunny's helping us try to find a way to stop it, to reverse it."

I have no idea what my sister is talking about. My parents look at me and try to elaborate. Daphne interrupts them with clarifications. Puck watches us from where he is leaning against the window, his face closed and grim. It is overwhelming and ridiculous, with everyone talking, and I have to wave my hands to stop them.

Puck's voice drawls over the sudden stillness. "Let's wait for Bunny to explain everything. You guys are driving me nuts."

Everyone nods assent, and Puck continues, completely unfazed, "By the way, Marshmallow cleaned up the mess in Disneyworld -"

"It took a cartload of forgetful dust," Daphne interjects, looking relieved to be changing the subject. " And I wrangled some magic with the news reporters. It's a miracle nothing's turned up on social media, with photos of you both flying in broad daylight."

"That's what magic's for, duh. I knew you could make everything go away. Anyway, it was an emergency," Puck says, unrepentant. "It was either that or Sabrina dies in the dwarf rollercoaster tunnel while waiting for a better time to make our grand exit."

"Die? From a headache?" I scoff. "You're overreacting."

"I never overreact," Puck retorts.

There is a knock on the door and Daphne leaves me, returning with Bunny Lancaster. Even with her sightless eyes that focus on nothing, her face is still one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. She taps the ground with her cane as she comes towards us, assessing the room with her other senses.

"Bunny," my mother calls to her. "Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"Not at all," Bunny replies, turning to and naming each of us in turn: "Veronica, Henry, Daphne, Puck, Sabrina. I apologize for the delay. The traffic, you know."

We all nod understandingly, even though Bunny cannot see it.

She walks to the bed and reaches out for me. I raise my hand to take hers, but she is aiming for my head, and she lets her hand rest on it.

"Sabrina," she says. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Great. I think."

"I don't think so, Sabrina. I feel it. It's worse now. Something happened to accelerate it." She turns questioningly to my family.

"Worse?" I burst out, confused. "Worse than what?"

Bunny looks in the direction of my parents. "How much have you told her?"

Daphne answers, "Just that the magic has changed her and she's not herself."

"That's nonsense," I protest, still not knowing what they're alluding to, but glad that, at last, I have something to contribute. "I'm completely myself. I don't feel any magical changes."

Bunny ignores me, her eyes closed, concentrating. "How long were you out for this time?"

"Half a day," Daphne supplies.

"And she still recognizes all of you? Puck, too?"

Dad and Mom nod mutely. I am beginning to feel like a child in the principal's office, listening to adults talk over my head.

I've had enough.

"Of course I recognize all of you! Why wouldn't I?"

Bunny turns back to me at last.

"Your memories have been tampered with. But here's the tricky part - you won't know it; it all seems real to you. We're going to have to convince you."

* * *

 **A/N: And now, perhaps, we are getting close to the truth.**

 **As I was developing my plot, I thought it would be fun to include elements of the original story but interpret them differently. So not AU as a whole, but different contexts than what the books had them in, and you'll see some of these scattered throughout the chapters. In this chapter, for instance, the conversation between Daphne and Sabrina at the door after Granny's funeral was based on a vital scene in the book, but in a totally different context. Did you recognize it?**

 **Also, I can't remember if the Nome King's belt in the books actually teleports people - does it? I hope I got that right.**


	21. Chapter 20

Bunny begins, "What do you know about Puck?"

This must be a trick question.

"Let's see . . . he's 4000-ish years old, he's not human, he can fly, he's currently sort-of-co-king of Faerie with Mustardseed, and he's been annoying me since we were children."

Bunny patiently clarifies, "Perhaps I should have asked, 'what do you _remember_ about Puck?' "

"I remember our first meeting, if that's what you mean," I say. "He set his pixies on Daphne and me. I was eleven. And then he tried to drown me in the neighbor's pool."

Puck grins as if recalling a particularly fond memory. "I remember that, too!"

"And do you remember the war with Mirror?" Mom prompts.

"What about when we went forward in time and saw ourselves in the future?" Daphne cuts in to add.

"Yes," I say, still mystified. "And we were grown up and battle-worn and Canis was evil and Puck and I were married."

Puck catches my eye as if he is about to comment on that, but Bunny glares sightlessly at him and he says nothing.

"And what about now?" She returns her attention to me. "What happened between you two?"

A memory comes to me - it was the night when we'd crossed over from _you-and-me_ to _us_.

 _One clear night in the fall, an hour after the house had settled down for bed;_ _I'd just finished a book, hovering in that woozy state between wakefulness and sleep._

 _Acorns thrown against the window. A message on my phone: "Im back". Sliding out of bed to investigate. Pink fluttering outside in the darkness. A nineteen-year-old boy with wings and a wicked smile tumbling in, tossing his backpack on the floor from where it had been strapped against his chest._

 _"Miss me?" He'd whispered._

 _"Never even noticed you'd gone." I'd lied, grinning._

 _His arms thrown open, a gleam in his eye as I'd knocked him over in a hug._

 _Holding each other in a shaft of moonlight, his nose in my hair, my face against his neck, marveling at how easy it was to fall in love over months and years, across continents, through texts and email and bad phone reception._

 _His lips on mine, the first time since we were eleven, blowing my world apart._

 _Me protesting, "Don't you want to be caught up first?"_

 _Him chuckling against my cheek, my earlobe between his teeth, "I_ am _catching up, Stinky."_

 _Me determined to give him the family status updates anyway: Daphne's a freshman in high school and having a blast; Basil's breaking hearts in fifth grade; Mom and Tatania are working out a new arrangement that will allow Everafters to be apprenticed in major firms on Wall Street; Dad's leg's been acting up but he's started a mentor program with young boys who'd lost their fathers in the war; Pinocchio's helping him; Red and Canis are doing well on their own; Snow and Charming are expecting their first child._

 _Him making it very difficult to stay on task, short-circuiting my brain and rendering my mouth handicapped with his. Us stumbling toward my bed, falling together, trying not to wake up the house with our laughter. Me swearing we should've done this earlier - years ago - but knowing deep down that actually, this timing was better, was_ perfect _, because we hadn't rushed the wanting, had taken our time with the choosing._

 _"So what about you?" Him pulling away at last, hair disheveled from my hands._

 _"School's great." Me distracted by the green of his eyes and the curve of his bottom lip._

 _"Not seeing anyone?"_

 _"Why? So you can go egg their houses?"_

 _"_ Their _? How many boys are we talking about?" His eyes narrowing._

 _"None, idiot. Well, there were a couple. But I'm done with them. Not my type after all."_

 _"And what is your type, Sabrina Grimm?"_

 _"Studious, serious, clean, respectable, impeccable manners."_

 _Him pushing himself off me and onto one elbow. "You've got to be kidding. You've got the hots for freaking Pinocchio?"_

 _"No, but I think Daphne might." Me laughing, tracing his lip - soft and slightly chapped - with my thumb. "Those were pretty decent guys, but they weren't you."_

 _His eyes crinkling at the corners. "Took you long enough to figure that out."_

 _"Took you long enough to grow up."_

 _"Touche."_

 _Me asking, heart in throat, "When are you leaving again?"_

 _Him declaring, "I'm done traveling. It's time for me to pull my weight in Faerie, so I'm going to stick around for a while."_

 _Me smiling wider than I'd had in a long time._

 _Us looking at each other, not speaking, not fighting, no longer children._

 _His stomach growling. Him sheepishly chortling, "I'm starving. Let's raid the kitchen."_

 _Creeping downstairs on quiet feet, leaning against the kitchen island, him eating cold leftover fried chicken and stale Oreos, us sharing a glass of milk._

 _Walking back upstairs, hand-in-hand, hesitating at my door. Him rationalizing, "My stuff is in there, you know." Me swallowing, "Okay."_

 _Us falling asleep together, my face against his shoulder, his cheek on my head, murmuring, semi-rhetorically, "Why did we take so long to do this?"_

 _Me whispering back against the fabric of his shirt, inhaling his scent, "Because_ this _time you're staying."_

I glance at Puck, wondering how to reply. He meets my gaze, not speaking. Then, when my silence becomes awkward, he blinks and offers, "Sabrina remembers that I left her and went off to see the world again."

Bunny responds with empty silence, and I feel I must elaborate. "Puck and I talked about what we think happened. He says I was the one who left, but I don't remember that. I remember him being the one who did. And. . . Uncle Jake met us in London and he says the same as Puck. I think. . . I think that there's something wrong with me."

Mom takes my hand and says gently, "Sabrina, Puck said the Goblin King did something to your head. What happened?"

I remember the pain and the nightmare kaleidoscope of images that blinded me when he'd touched me.

"I saw things. And people. Some I knew and some I'd never met. Things happening that I'd never seen before. Maybe I was seeing the future?"

"What kinds of things?" Dad asks.

Even though my head still pounds, I concentrate to tease the image of one clashing vision from the rest.

"A fancy party. With dancing and everyone dressed up. It reminded me of Seven's and Morgan's wedding long ago, but much fancier, richer. I was there, dancing with Dad."

Everyone exchanges furtive glances but no one says anything, except Bunny, who encourages me to continue.

I bring up another scene. "I'm looking up at a face. It's a fairy. A woman. She has silver hair and she looks kind. But also worried or sad, I don't know. I've never met her before. I think I'm lying down and she is leaning over me, doing something to me, to my body. But it's not clear now. It's confusing, and fading, almost."

I notice that almost as soon as I recall the vision, it recedes from me into mere suggestion, as if it were only an idea I'd had a long time ago, with nebulous boundaries and hardly any details to give it substance.

This time, the looks that pass between the others are heavy with meaning.

Bunny straightens and announces, "She's remembering because of the goblin's power. But it's taking hold of her again, returning her to what she was."

"Those were _memories_?" I wonder aloud.

"Can we bring them back?" Puck asks, hope making his voice loud.

"Er, can we not talk about me as if I'm not here?" I ask uncomfortably.

Everyone looks at Bunny, as if waiting for her permission to speak. Bunny shrugs. "Might as well tell her. There's nothing to gain by hiding it at this point."

I don't like the sound of this. I stare at my family, at Puck. "Mom? Dad? What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

Mom, to her credit, doesn't hum and haw, or look to Dad to make the first move. She speaks firmly and kindly. "Do you remember in the war, when you had a piece of one of the mirrors in you? And how sick it made you? Baba Yaga said it would burn you up unless you used it up."

"And I did. I . . . I channeled all the magic out to Mirror, remember? And he . . . he died. And I wasn't sick anymore."

"That's what we all thought. And then . . ." she pauses and looks at Puck.

"It wasn't actually gone. It was just dormant, waiting for something to trigger it." Bunny's voice cuts in, crisp and businesslike. "And when it started working again, it took over your mind. Those dizzy spells and blackouts you had during the war when it first happened - any of that sound familiar now?"

I sit and stare at her, oddly detached, not really registering what I've just heard; until recently, I'd felt wonderful - healthy, good, alive, _myself_.

But there _had_ been dizzy spells, and blackouts, and those random bursts of rage that came out of nowhere and left me drained and confused.

"Why now? You said something triggered it - what?" I finally ask.

Everyone's eyes shift to Puck, who swallows.

"You got pregnant," he says quietly.

 _And it was mine_ , he doesn't say, although everyone's eyes on him do.

It is interesting that my first reaction is shame. I feel the heat in my cheeks and I drop my eyes, feeling the unreasonable urge to apologize to my parents, as if I were 15 and under threat of a lifetime curfew.

Then, the facts catch up with me.

"Pregnant? Where's the baby?"

"We lost it." Puck's voice is hollow.

"You didn't make it even halfway through your first trimester," Mom elaborates, subdued. "We - Bunny and Gossamer - think that the baby had magic of its own and that triggered that dormant bit of the mirror and . . . there was some kind of a power struggle inside you, and the mirror won. Gossamer tried to save the baby but she couldn't - she could only save you in the end. Even then, you almost died."

"Gossamer?"

"Cobweb's daughter. She took his place as Faerie's head physician after he died. She and Bunny worked together on you, trying to figure out what was wrong and how to cure you. This was the best they could do. Gossamer thought that Cobweb might have been able to do more, if he were still alive."

I feel the irrational urge to make a joke. "So it wasn't the hormones. I'd always heard the mood swings were killer."

No one laughs; they look at each other worriedly. Bunny takes up the slack in her clipped tones.

"The Fae healer and I are relatively sure that the piece of the mirror is still in you, and changing you. How, we don't know exactly, but your family has been keeping an eye on you, to see if you're different."

I swing my gaze from Bunny's impassive face to my parents', and Daphne's. Daphne speaks for the first time.

"You're still _you_ , sis," she begins, reassuringly. "I mean, you still like the same things you've always liked and you remember us, of course, and you still have the same pet peeves - you know: watercress salad, people not putting the seat down. . ." She looks pointedly at Puck.

I know Daphne - when she starts out with the good news, it's because the bad news is really awful. So I prompt, "But?"

"You kinda became a recluse. Not that you were Miss Sociability before," she disclaims, raising her hands in defense, "But you. . . left, got your own place, got into all this self-help psycho stuff. . . and you were really, really mad at Puck."

I lift my eyes to him in surprise. He stands against the wall, looking defeated. I want to go to him and make him smile like he'd been smiling the past week on our trip. He'd been so happy - both of us were; now he looks as if his world has bottomed out.

"Because I remembered you leaving me for no reason," I say for the umpteenth time. I am sick of hearing myself accuse him of something only I seem to believe he's done.

"I didn't," he responds again, like a recording stuck on repeat.

"Tell her, Puck," Daphne says fiercely. "Tell her what it was like."

I am finally going to hear the truth. And I am not going to believe it.

Puck takes a deep breath and stares up at the ceiling, his hands raking his hair. When he finally speaks, his voice is dead of emotion.

"We lost the baby. We almost lost you. You were out for days. When you woke up, it was like you were this new person - strong, focused. . . but you were only interested in moving on. You didn't want anything to do with me. You didn't want to talk about what happened, about our baby. You said you needed to be on your own, to start a new life. It was the best for you, you said. And then you left, and I didn't see you for a year, year and a half. You didn't answer my calls, my texts, nothing. I tried to find you, but it was like you'd disappeared off the face of the earth. You certainly knew how to sneak off, I'll give you that.

"And then, out of the blue, you texted me. Asked how I was and could we meet? I was so happy: you were safe, you weren't dead, you wanted to come back. So we met, and you were almost like your old self . . . but you still didn't want to talk about what happened- actually, you acted as if you didn't even know what I was talking about when I mentioned it. So I didn't bring it up again. We just talked about what we were doing - you were in school, you said, and school was going well. We even . . . you even. . . we spent the night together. . . in a hotel because you didn't want to come to Faerie and you wouldn't tell me where you lived. And I thought we were going to be okay. But the next morning, you were gone. Again. No address, no goodbye, nothing. It was worse than the first time. I didn't hear from you for another year. I tried everything. I thought . . . I thought if I knew what _I_ was doing wrong. . ." He stops, his voice thick with pain.

Daphne continues for him. "You contacted Puck again, and again. Each time it was the same - after a couple of weeks, max, you'd disappear and leave Puck in a worse state than before. He came to us, distraught, but we didn't know how to help him. What could we do? We didn't even know where you were. Eventually, he told us he couldn't do this anymore, that he was going back to Faerie to work, that he'd have to believe that you no longer wanted him that way, and the only way to cope with you was to be like you were kids again, joking and teasing and acting like the past few years never happened."

"And it worked." Puck resumes his account. "The next few times, you seemed happier to stay on the surface. So I did it - acted like we were eleven again, pranking and teasing and flirting, even using our old nicknames. It was torture, being like that after what we had, and you'd _still_ pack up and disappear when your time was up. But at least it was a way to play the game without being burned."

"How long ago was this?" I feel oddly detached, as if I were hearing about someone else, a random piece of gossip.

"Five years," Puck says tiredly.

 _Five years_.

Five years that I don't remember. Or misremember. Five years during which _my_ reality was sitting around waiting for Puck to come back, to call, to text, anything. Five years during which _my_ reality was my heart breaking when days turned into months and I didn't know if he were dead or alive or holding another girl the way he used to hold me.

Something Marian talked about comes to me: _sometimes people are so traumatized by an event that their minds reprogram themselves to believe it never happened_.

"Maybe I was so angry you got me pregnant that I went into denial," I say at last.

Puck's and Daphne's eyes widen simultaneously.

"Sabrina." Daphne breathes almost reverently. "You wanted to have a baby! You were so excited when you found out!"

"The baby was a _good_ thing," Puck says almost bitterly. "It was a reason for _joy_. All of Faerie celebrated."

" _All_ of Faerie?" I am incredulous. "Is nothing private anymore? I suppose it was on Facebook, too? And Instagram? And while we were at it, why not upload our dalliances on Youtube?"

" _Dalliances_?" Puck's voice is raised now, outraged. "Is that what you think of our marriage?"

He turns his head and curses, a single explosive, angry ejaculation. Then - a second time - a splintered whisper as his frustration deflates into sorrow. Dad rests a hand on his shoulder.

 _Marriage?_

"What?" I hear my own voice, weak as a whimper.

"Our marriage. Our baby. The vows we made to each other - to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. Yes, I remember them! I _kept_ them! I am not a child anymore, Sabrina!"

"We're _married_?"

Daphne and Puck exchange another of the charged looks that seem to punctuate the entire family conference. Everyone else is silent, watching (or - in Bunny's case - listening) to us, heads turning to follow the volley of bombshells and combustible outbursts.

"Don't you remember that?" Daphne asks carefully.

I shake my head, my mouth agape. "And Puck was okay with it?"

Puck frowns. "Well, _I_ proposed, so I guess . . . yeah!"

Then his voice drops to normal volume. "What did you think we were?"

"Nothing. Dating or semi-dating or something like it. At best."

Puck pointedly walks away, his face closed.

Dad finally joins the circus. "Maybe we should try to pinpoint exactly what Sabrina does remember that's real or - at least - unaffected. If we can find out how far back this goes before her memories were lost, we might at least be on the same page."

"I don't think her memories _are_ lost," Bunny observes, and we all sit up at the wary tone of her voice. "I think they are _changed_. Modified . . . by the mirror's magic in her. I've been listening to all of you and I think there's a pattern here, a kind of selective memory alteration. See: she remembers all of you- Henry, Veronica, Daphne, probably even Basil - as you are. Nothing's missing or different. She also remembers Puck, but only up to when you were - what - eighteen? Seventeen? When did you leave to see the world, Puck?"

"Twelve, maybe thirteen. Came back for good at nineteen. By human appearances, nineteen, I mean."

"And you were dating by then?"

"Started then, yep."

"And when were you married?"

"Twenty-two."

"And the baby came a couple years after. I remember that. That was about five years ago, yes. You're twenty-nine now." Her comments are directed at me and I listen, stunned into silence at hearing my life described as if it were someone else's. "Sabrina, what do you remember of William and Snow?"

I am thrown off by Bunny's out-of-context question and struggle to gather my thoughts.

"Uh, they're married and have three kids."

Bunny nods. "And what of Titania?"

I frown as I answer, feeling like a kindergartener asked to recite the alphabet. "She's Queen of Faerie. Mustardseed is her son and Puck's brother. They're both helping her run Faerie until Puck decides he's ready to fully take the throne."

Bunny nods, her finger on her chin. "Actually, Titania is retired and living on some tropical island with her new flame. And Puck _is_ the reigning King of Faerie. Has been for the last two years - is it two, Puck?"

"And a half."

"Which makes _you_ the Queen of Faerie, although you'd spent more time in school than on the throne."

"You always preferred to work behind the scenes," Mom clarifies.

"Although you weren't above dressing up for the occasional ball to entertain visiting dignitaries." Daphne smiles weakly.

"And by 'dressing up', she means, 'cleaner jeans than usual'." Puck rolls his eyes.

Bunny flips her hand at them as if their frivolity offends her. "So it seems that Sabrina's memories of her family - all of you - are relatively intact. As are those of friends who are not family. But those involving Puck are, for some reason, altered."

"Because of the magic," Puck states, as if it is obvious.

"Yes," Bunny agrees. "I think the magic is sentient, and protective. It has altered her memories of anyone who might pose a threat to its presence in her body: Puck because he is her husband and could possibly impregnate her again; the baby because it was itself a source of opposing power. Also Faerie, because it is the seat of his -and the baby's - magic; anything associated with it is affected. For instance, she's outdated with regards to Titania and she doesn't remember Gossamer at all, even though they'd struck up a friendship in her short time as Queen."

"And even while we were courting," Puck supplies.

"So all I have to do is remember the real versions of these parts of my life, and I'll be okay?" I struggle to keep up.

"And stop seeing things that aren't there," Puck adds. "Like internet connection that doesn't exist."

Everyone stares at him, baffled.

"In Leicester, she was staring at this blank screen on her laptop for who knows how long, saying she was Skyping with her therapist. There was no internet connection at this hotel. It said so at their front desk when I checked in. Totally backward for even a motel in this day and age, but the girl was out cold and we couldn't really be picky about where we crashed."

"Therapist?" Mom asks. "You're seeing a therapist?"

"Marian. I've told you about her. Course requirement for one of my Psych. classes."

"You've never mentioned her," Mom replies. "And since when were you taking Psych. classes? You said your plate was beyond full with all your law credits."

Law credits?

I sit back, alarm bells going off all over the place. "I've told you and Dad about Marian! Remember? I said I was reluctant at first because I couldn't possibly discuss any of the crazy issues I have, like Everafter friends and dating fairies, but she's great at helping me work through the more normal things like the war and Granny dying. And we had conversations about her! You said, ' . . .' "

Actually, now that I think of it, Mom and Dad have never said anything about Marian.

Or have they?

So much for Bunny's theory of my family being truly immune to my warped memories.

Mom and Dad look at each other before shaking their heads subtly.

Bunny interjects, frowning, her voice cool and formal like the investigator she is; I can practically see her mind reframing a new way to explain my madness. "When did you meet this therapist?"

I think back. "Last year. She's on staff at the New Connections Center on the Upper West Side."

Daphne whips out her iPhone and starts typing. I know she's surfing the net to verify this, and for some reason, my blood turns cold.

Mom says gently, "And we also found out you dropped out of law school, honey. But we thought you needed some time. . . to heal and everything. So we didn't ask you about it."

Bunny asks, "Anyone else new whom you've met in the last year or two?"

 _Bradley._

Oh, sweet heavens, Bradley. I'm married and having an affair. Does it count if I didn't know I was married?

I scrunch up my eyes and palm them.

"Who else, Sabrina?" Mom's gentle voice prompts.

"Bradley."

"Who?" I hear the hardness in Puck's tone.

"He's . . ." I look up at Mom, pleading with my eyes for her to understand. ". . . my. . . boyfriend."

"Boyfriend!" Puck explodes.

I hear Dad mutter to him, "Hear her out."

Puck's face is stormy. He does not look at me.

"We met in school - he was a Ph.D student and we shared a couple of classes. He's working for Aster & Sons now - he's their company psychologist. He lives on the Upper West side." I pause before continuing. I figure I might as well get it all out once and for all, I've already dug myself in this deep. "We were talking about moving in together."

I risk a glance at Puck. His jaw clenches and unclenches, his eyes staring out the window.

Daphne looks up from her phone. "No such person as Marian anybody at New Connections. Are you sure you got the name right?"

"Yes. I go there once a week. Stone building, big oriental lion at the entrance. And her name is Dr. Marian Rutoski."

Daphne shows me a picture of the New Connections Center on her screen, complete with ornamental lion. I nod.

"No such person as Marian Rutoski. I take it she didn't recently quit?"

I shake my head, feeling dangerously buoyant in my rising panic.

"And you said this Bradley works for Aster & Sons? Last name?"

"Scott." I can barely speak for dread, not knowing what it means that she can't find Marian on the staff listing.

Seconds later, during which you could cut the tension with an axe, Daphne reports, "Aster & Sons have two company psychologists - Ms. Francesca Botelli and Mrs. Elle McNamara." She pauses. "And there is no Bradley Scott on the list of licensed psychologists in New York City added in the last ten years. One Bradley Williamson and two Scotts - a Timothy and a Brittany."

I stand abruptly. I have to get out of here. I know what I must do: I will go to Bradley's apartment, which is as familiar as my own and, married or not, I will find him and bring him to meet the family.

I dash out the door. My car is still parked where I'd left it days ago before hopping into Dad's to go to JFK to begin this nightmare of an adventure. Everyone else, taken by surprise, stands several seconds late and by the time they are at the car, I have it started and am backing out of the driveway.

"Wait!" Dad calls, Bunny on his arm, walking as quickly as she can. I would have ignored him but for the fact that Puck has flown and landed on the roof of the vehicle and yanked open the passenger door.

"I have to do this!" I shout at him.

"I know," he says. "And I'm coming."

"No, you're not." The last thing I want is for Puck to punch Bradley in the face.

Assuming I can find Bradley.

 _I will find Bradley._

"Sabrina!" Bunny calls. "Wait!"

I put the car in park, breathing heavily, my head swimming.

Bunny reaches my door. "Sabrina. Listen. I have a theory. We don't know which of your . . . social interactions are real or not, and I think it's good that you are going to find out. The thing is, if they are only in your mind - and I'm saying _if_ \- you won't know if they're real as long as you're by yourself. That's when the illusions perpetuate, you see. Let Puck go with you. He's real, or at least, we've noticed that when he's close by, you see the illusions for what they are. Or, to be more precise, you don't have a hallucinatory episode when he's with you. Think about it - isn't that true? Anyway, these people you've talked about - maybe they're real and maybe they're not. But if you meet your Bradley with Puck beside you, and Puck can see him, then he - or whoever else you see - is real. It'll be a good test."

"How do I know _you're_ real? And Mom and Dad? And . . . and Puck?"

"Because we existed before you changed. And you still remember us as we were. Most of us, anyway." Bunny says patiently, reasonably.

I grip the steering wheel, not even noticing that Puck has already strapped himself in next to me, his jaw set.

"Okay. He can come. But Puck, you're not to touch him!"

"I can't promise that," Puck says grimly.

Dad lays his hand on Puck's shoulder again. "You may not need to," he says quietly and meaningfully, and I fight down a scream at his implications - I don't want to lash out at Dad.

Puck nods and says, "I'll call."

Then, with a screech of tires, I pull out and down the driveway, and begin the long journey to the city.

* * *

 **A/N: Curiouser and curiouser - but perhaps some of the pieces are slowly falling into place. We're going to up the intensity level a little more in the next few chapters, so hang on to your socks, friends!**


	22. Chapter 21

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews, friends! Also for the encouragement about the characters being fairly true-to-themselves. It's always tricky to extrapolate their ages beyond the book. On the one hand, there's no reference for adult P or adult S apart from that one setting in Book 5? 6? (I forget) where we got to see their future selves interact. On the other hand, one can't just write them as one wishes, with no consistency with their younger selves at all. So adult P and adult S in my story are what I imagine they'd be with a decade-and-a-half's worth of mellowing - same quirks, but with the empowerment of independence and jobs and the maturity to handle intimacy and so on. I wasn't aiming for _spot-on_ ; just _plausible_ would've been good enough, but you guys have been so positive about the characterization that I'm dancing around the room and punching my fist in the air for relief and happiness. **

**We're just over half-way through! So keep reading (and reviewing, if you can spare a moment) - there are plenty more chapters to come, and S+P's story is really only just beginning! This next chapter is another one I really enjoyed writing, because we're in S's head as she figures out all the funky goings-on. Enjoy!**

* * *

The hour it takes to get to downtown Manhattan feels like a century, made worse by the stony silence hanging like a wall between Puck and me. My panic and desperation build with each traffic delay, and my anger is the only thing keeping back the tears at the prospective danger of my life falling apart, one mental mirage at a time.

When we finally arrive at the corner of the cross streets at which Bradley's apartment stands, I park, barely noticing how many times I've had to circle the block to find an empty spot on the street. It is Sunday and Bradley is usually home - Sunday, when we'd crash on his sofa and nap or cuddle, as if there were no one else but us the world. I wonder if he's missed me during the week I've been away.

I push open the main door and enter the lobby, looking for the security guard that usually greets me - sandy-headed, middle-aged Ed - but instead there is another man there, dark-skinned and curly-haired, with a dimple in his cheek as he smiles. His name - according to the name tent on the counter - is George Rizal.

I tell him the unit number - 22B - and ask after Ed.

He has never heard of Ed, he apologizes, and whom should he say to the tenant is calling?

I give him my name, and tell him I am Bradley Scott's girlfriend. I do not look at Puck when I say it.

He pauses and frowns, then says there is no Bradley Scott in 22B; am I sure I have the right unit number?

I grip the edge of the counter and try to fight the sudden light-headedness as I hear my own voice inform him that I am here every weekend, that it is usually Ed who is behind the reception desk, and that Bradley has been living here since he bought the apartment 7 months prior. I do not miss the suspicious glance he casts over my head at Puck as he carefully reiterates that he has been the doorman for the past year and a half and that 22B belongs to an elderly couple whose name he is not at liberty to disclose, although he can assure us it is not Scott.

I barely hear Puck, uncharacteristically decorous, apologize and thank him, suggesting that we must surely be mistaken; there are so many similar-looking buildings in the city that it is no wonder we strangers from out of town have confused one for another. I am in a daze as I feel Puck's hand on my back, gently but firmly ushering me back out. I follow him aimlessly, turning back only once to check that the building number on the brick facade - 212 - is correct, and to gaze upward to the 22nd-floor balcony where I remember being pummeled in a snowball fight just months earlier.

Or thought I remembered.

Puck is calling my name.

"Huh?" I turn to him, in shock, unseeing.

"Are you okay?"

I stand in the middle of the street, feeling nothing. He puts his arm around me and returns us to the car, helping me into the passenger seat, then takes his turn to drive.

"My apartment." I find my voice at last and, along with it, a tiny spark of hope. "I can prove it. I have photos of us."

He knows that by "us", I don't mean him and me, but he makes no comment, only asks, "Where is it?"

We drive the 45 minutes that, in any other city would take 15, to where I live. We park on the street and walk up to my door. I pause, wondering if even this is not real, that my key wouldn't fit, that I'd be unwittingly trying to break into the home of a stranger.

But the key slides in and turns.

I am so relieved that it's all I can do not to crumple to the ground right at my doorstep.

Inside, it is just as I'd left it - tidied up in preparation for being away for a couple of weeks: the smell of furniture and stone and the temporary absence of human activity. As Puck looks around in curiosity, I head to the bookshelf, where I'd arranged photos of Bradley and me, the tangible record of our history.

There are no pictures. I see only books and CDs.

"Where are they? Someone's broken in and stolen them!" I scream in my mind.

I remember the hall closet and run to it, looking for the stack of clothes Bradley keeps here for the occasions when he stays overnight.

The shelf is piled with towels and bedlinen; nothing else.

I stumble from room to room, but there is no sign of his shaving kit in the bathroom, no boxes of his favorite cereal in the pantry cupboard, no stack of research articles on the side table - missing evidence of a phantom roommate. And in the little glass dish on the entryway shelf sits the spare key- real and solid- that has, for the past half year, hung from Bradley's key-ring.

Or so I'd seen.

Or _thought_ I'd seen.

Two logical explanations come to mind. The first is that Bradley has inexplicably moved out while I was away, and left no word, only a space clinically devoid of any sign of his having once lived, laughed and loved here. He certainly wouldn't have been the first guy I remember doing that.

I cannot bring myself to think of the second.

Puck is still standing, silently watching me. His face conveys the kinder side of pity as his eyes follow my desperate trajectories through the flat until I sink into a crouch beside the armchair.

For a long time, I squat, curled into myself, focusing on nothing, feeling even less.

He comes to sit beside me, not touching, not speaking. What is there to say? How can I even return from where I have been, wherever that is?

He rises at last. "I'll get coffee."

The air fills with sounds of cupboard doors opening and shutting, silverware clinking, the steamy whoosh of a kettle boiling. Then he returns, holding out a mug.

"I could only find instant. And you're out of caramel," he says, more gently than I've ever heard him speak.

I take the mug, simply for want of something to do with my hands. I am silent for a long time, lost in shock.

When it feels safe again to rejoin the world, I speak. "You make good coffee."

"I've had a lot of practice," he replies. "You drink so much of it."

I turn to look at him, and his words come back to me.

 _Married. Our baby._

It hits me then, like a ton of bricks, the real tragedy in all this: of all the reality bombshells dropped today, I've dismissed the most pertinent to chase after the one that never actually existed. And yet Puck, whose life has been upended in ways I cannot even begin to appreciate, has not pressed his case, has not demanded that we talk about _us_ , has not said a word about my indiscretions, imaginary or otherwise. Instead, he has simply made good coffee and sat beside me.

My eyes flood with tears. And the dam - at last - breaks.

Puck takes the coffee mug from my shaking hands and pulls me to him, holding me in silence as I shudder against him, screaming into his shirt, pounding my fists against his chest, exorcising the lies that were so beautiful and sweet. I am helpless and there is a catharsis in admitting it, even while being furious at the betrayal, at my shame at being, once again, played by the magic of a mirror.

I let it out. And he holds me.

Hours later - it seems - I am spent. No longer even strong enough to grip his shirt, Puck is the one whose arms support me. His shirt in question is a mess where I have wept on it, streaked my nose on it, bitten it between my teeth in my rage. He holds my head, slowly sifting my hair between his fingers.

"You know," he begins placidly, as if the maelstrom of tears and fury had not just happened. "I don't believe I've ever been invited here. So this is your place, huh?"

I sit up, as if waking from a nightmare.

"You want the grand tour? Living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. The end." My voice is shaky, but it feels good to talk about normal things.

"Fancy." He nods. "And there's a Chinese place down the street, too, it looked like. Good pick, Grimm."

"It's always about food with you, isn't it?"

I stop short. I remember saying those same words to Bradley.

 _Who isn't._ _Who never was._

I was screwed real good this time.

I'm suddenly angry again, and dismayed that a good cry is ultimately still impotent in the grand scheme of recovery and healing. This is what grief feels like, I realize - two steps forward and fifty-six back, for as excruciatingly long as it takes to reverse the odds and gain ground, slowly but surely, while the world watches.

And if it feels like a festering wound with Puck beside me, ready to break the fall with coffee and the warmth of his arms, what must it have been like for _him_ when I'd not only flown the coop but also turned the tables on him in _his_ solitude?

"Puck, I'm sorry. All this time . . ."

"Hush," he interrupts. "Your mind was being messed with. It wasn't you doing those things. Those things weren't even real."

Even though they're true, I still wince at his words.

"I'm sorry about Bradley," I continue. "I feel so stupid."

And confused. And _torn wide open._

"About what - that you found someone else or that he wasn't real?"

Something about his tone tells me that this question is more important to him than he lets on. And in spite of how I am still smarting from Bradley today, it is Puck whom I'm glad is here with me.

I want him to hear my answer, to _really_ hear it.

"When we were in Florida," I look at him, "I didn't think of him once. When I kissed you, it was all _you_."

He stares back, then looks down at my hand as he takes my fingers in his.

I watch his bowed head, golden hair falling over his ears. I try to remember what I'd learned in Psych. class - about coping, about rational thinking and breaking down a problem into workable steps. Was that even a real class? Would I, if I logged into my school account right now, find that my student id doesn't exist, that no one with my name has ever registered for a Psych. course, that it was just an elaborate fabrication to heal a tattered soul when running away alone wasn't enough?

I fight down a bitter laugh as I convince myself that it doesn't matter, that even if I'd made it all up from the self-help books lining my bookshelves, some of what I'd read must surely be real, should actually make sense, could possibly help.

"I think it might take me some time to get over . . . everything." I speak haltingly as I formulate my thoughts. "They still feel real. I mean, I still think they're real; they're still in my head. And I don't know if it's a good thing that everyone knows now, and can easily just tell me I imagined them. In a strange way, I'm also relieved that it's just you and me again. But I don't know what _that_ even is. I can't just . . . be what we were . . . just like that. I mean, I want to, but I need time, okay?"

"Okay."

"You said I've done this before, right? Come back to you, I mean. What if tomorrow I forget again and leave?"

"It feels different this time." He looks up, his eyes bright with hope. "I can't explain it, but it's like you're in a different place now. Last time, you denied being married, and got all worked up and hysterical when anyone even mentioned it. Today, you just listened, like it was interesting news, not something traumatic. Believe me, that's a definite improvement. Plus this time, you actually found out that your life . . . well, what you thought was your life, wasn't real. And you're at least open to the idea that I didn't leave you. That never happened last time."

"I'm sorry I was so hard on you. That _everything_ was so hard for you."

"Well, yeah. It sucked, I'll admit that. Your family was great, though. Even after I went back to Faerie and kept out of the picture, they still never gave up on us."

Of course - my parents' attempts at throwing us together on this great elixir hunt now make complete sense, as do Daphne's aggressive encouragement from the sidelines and Uncle Jake's campaign for our reconciliation. They never said it outright; they were always walking on eggshells around me because I was a ticking time bomb, ready to blow at the drop of a hat.

Or a word ill-placed.

Puck's voice drags me back from my pity party.

". . . and they kept me updated on when you called or emailed, that sort of thing. You never told them where you lived, you know, so we couldn't track you down. And, trust me, we tried - magic, technology, everything. You must've had some real serious smokescreen thing going on. But every now and then _you'd_ call Veronica or Marshmallow. And sometimes you'd even answer your phone when _they_ called you. It was the best we had. You're lucky to have them. They're good people. Even Henry - he turned out to be a decent father-in-law after all. Good thing we didn't have to duel to the death at the wedding!"

"That isn't even true! You made it up!"

He laughs. "It is, too, true! And I would've won - for all his punching and kicking, he's still an old geezer."

I shove him. "Stop. This is my dad you're talking about. He was the one who taught me to fight, and we've all seen how I can punch and kick you into the next life, so shut up."

He continues chuckling. "You wanna try that now?"

I shake my head. I am grateful for Puck's teasing - I should be annoyed by his flippancy at a time like this, but it is oddly comforting, and I find myself smiling at him.

"So . . . we're married, huh?"

"Yep." His grin in response is smug.

I stare at his fingers, still intertwined with mine. "No ring, then?"

He releases my hand, digs his wallet out of his back pocket, opens a compartment, tips out a dull grey ring and holds it up. It looks less like precious metal and more like something you'd buy in the plumbing section of a hardware store.

"Never leave home without it."

"But you're not wearing it."

"Well, seeing as it seemed to piss you off big time, I took it off. After that, you seemed happier, so I figured I'd just wait to put it back on."

He hesitates, looking at me, unsure. "Should I now?"

I nod.

He pushes it onto his finger and smiles nervously. I realize I like how it looks on his hand.

"And I guess I threw mine away?" I ask sadly.

"Nope. You're wearing it."

I give a start and look down at my hand, at the ring that Puck had given me to fake-propose for Rhogin's benefit. Except it wasn't fake, and it wasn't necessary after all. I twist it off and look at it carefully. It is a simple bright silver band and on the inner surface are engraved our names and the year we were married. I've been wearing it for several days and I'd never thought to look on the inside.

"Here's the other half. I couldn't decide which one to have you wear for Rhogin - it should've been this one, the real engagement ring -" Puck tips something out of the same wallet compartment and holds out another ring, not quite as bright as the one on my finger, set with a gemstone, small but brilliant. "But I thought you might freak out, so I went with the simpler band."

I take it from him and turn it over, trying in vain to recall the moment I'd said, "Yes" for real.

"Fairy gold," he informs me. "Dull when you first mine it, but gets brighter the longer it's worn against the skin. And not really gold, but that's what it's called."

He holds up his hand to display his lead-colored ring. "I haven't worn it for some time, so naturally it looks like crap. But give it a week or so, and it'll look fantastic."

I push the second ring onto my finger, next to the first.

"They look good on you, Mrs. Goodfellow," Puck says, undisguised joy in his voice.

I look up and allow myself another smile, in spite of everything unknown and unspoken between us. The amber shaft slanting through the window glints off his hair but there is a light in his eyes as he holds my gaze that has nothing to do with the sun.

"Speaking of weddings, did you notice that I didn't unleash stinky Pegasi on you when I found out, Fairyboy?"

"It was clearly a better deal discovering you're married to me than the other way around, duh." His response is lightning-fast.

I suddenly turn serious, panic churning my stomach. I am afraid my mind will lock this memory away, like it has so many others.

"Don't let me wake up tomorrow and forget you."

"I swear it on Oberon's grave," he says, his eyes never leaving my face.

* * *

When night falls, I don't feel like eating, but Puck orders in Chinese food anyway. We sit at the table and poke around with chopsticks in our cardboard takeout cartons. I want to process everything that's happened, but at the same time, I don't, because it makes me heavy with sadness to think of what I have lost. I'm afraid to be alone with my thoughts, not knowing if they are prison or penance. So I sit quietly, not letting myself ruminate, trying to feel positive about what I have instead gained - a marriage and a husband that, by all accounts, are supposed to have been great.

Knowing now what Puck is to me, I let myself fully look at him, hoping that -if nothing else, this will make Bradley feel less real and less precious, so that I can feel I am moving forward, making progress to somehow heal. Unlike the way I'd watched Puck in the past week, as if he were not mine to have, I now try to wrap my mind around the idea that I've known all of him, in ways too intimate to imagine. I tell myself we have made a child together and, if the way he has held me and touched me in recent days is any indication, he is good to be with, good to be loved by and good to love back.

He catches me watching him and he smirks. My cheeks warm and I turn away.

"What?" He says, as if he has a very good idea already.

I unconsciously glance at the rings on our hands. It still feels surreal. I am suddenly nervous that, in spite of what I'd said to him earlier about taking my time, he might mistake my glances as invitations.

"Sabrina," he says. "Look at me."

I do. He is poised with his elbows on the table, chopsticks hovering above the cream cheese wontons.

"I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm not in a hurry. We have time. I can wait."

I nod, face flaming.

"Although if you want to seal the deal right now while dinner gets cold, I'm all for it," he cheekily amends.

I exhale. "I do NOT."

But the tension is broken, and for that I am glad.

And awkward - I stumble over my next words, trying to clarify, explain what I don't know I want or feel obliged to want.

He stands, dropping his chopsticks, and takes my hand.

"Come here, idiot." He pulls me away from the table and wraps his other arm around my waist, drawing me close against him. I hardly feel my wound now. I shiver at the contact, at how we feel together. He moves his feet slowly, rhythmically, as he hums against my ear.

"What are we doing?" I whisper.

"Dancing; what do you think?"

Well, this is unexpected. I have forgotten that he can, that we have in the past; he is so normal and human sometimes that it's easy not to see him as Fae, as royalty with the capacity for things of the court.

"This is the equivalent of the wedding march in Faerie." He stops humming long enough to enlighten me. "Nowhere as bludgeoning on the eardrums as your human one, but I don't suppose you remember it from our wedding at all. Or dancing with me there. Or anything of it."

"No," I say regretfully.

"Well, it's a good thing we took all those photos, then, and I'm sure there's a video or two of me mashing your face in cake. It's probably on Youtube, courtesy of Marshmallow, of course. Anyway, dance with me."

So I do, listening to him hum the strange, lilting melody in my ear, conjuring images of morning and twilight and fireflies and summer and the ocean spray on sun-kissed faces. I feel the thrum of the vibrations through his throat as I rest my cheek against his neck. He moves me in intricate patterns across the floor, bringing the ethereal sensations of a fantasy world into my earthy living room. He does not dip his head to kiss me, does not move his hands in a caress, does not cross any line I may have subconsciously drawn across our future, or past.

When the song ends, his body stills and he continues to hold me. I am unaccustomed to this reserved version of Puck, affectionate and patient and steady. What happened to the precocious boy who sneaked passionate, desperate kisses in hallways and sighed in husky whispers against my cheek in the moonlight?

He is afraid.

He is afraid because I have conditioned him to second-guess us.

Even now, I cannot be sure that, come next week, I will not change again and prove him right. And if _I_ cannot be sure, how can _he_ be? My heart swells at the comprehension of what is at stake for him.

I pull back and reach for his face.

"I want to love you again," I tell him.

Even though I don't know what that might look like in the immediate future, or what it might have impersonated in the past, I want him to know that right now, I mean it. There is a part of me that has yet to process what to do about Bradley-that-never-was-but-actually-still-is, but for now, I push that thought behind a door and shut it.

"And I want to believe that I will tomorrow, too," I continue, "And the day after, and next week and next year and always. I know that's not enough but . . ."

He moves forward and kisses me.

Ah, _there_ is that boy I remember. Once more, he has stepped over the brink to meet me.

Perhaps tonight I will follow him when he crosses back.

* * *

Two (separate) showers later, we are standing in the middle of the living room and trying to negotiate our new shared space. Puck has quickly cast aside the proprietary unfamiliarity of being a guest and summoned his pixies to magic his backpack from wherever he'd last left it (most likely Florida). And as they'd taken the initiative to produce my suitcase as well, I let it slide that there was now a small pile of dirty clothes on the otherwise pristine floor outside the bathroom. Puck had emerged, loudly declaring that he couldn't believe he'd eschewed showers in his youth, because they were so effective at stripping the last dredges of an inferior species (he'd meant goblins) off his esteemed person. I - myself already cleansed, and with my hair wrapped in a towel - had quietly agreed, choosing not to taunt him about his highly pungent juvenile days. There was still a rawness in my soul tonight that wouldn't flow with acerbic banter.

That rawness splinters into a complex colloid of prickly emotions as I watch Puck unpack his belongings onto a shelf in my hall closet.

Bradley's clothes were supposed to have sat on that shelf. And it might have been more than just an overnight supply - I remember the dream in which we'd talked about moving in together. If we'd picked mine, it would've been this apartment that held the physical evidence of his life.

If he'd been real.

Puck turns to find me watching him.

"Too soon?" He asks, blasé. Then his tone softens. "Or I could continue living out of my backpack."

"No." I stop him. "We agreed. This is your place, too. You can crash here anytime."

Immediately, I want to take back the words.

What an idiot I am. Puck isn't a part-time boyfriend who sometimes stays over when he is too tired to make the drive home. Husbands do not _crash_ at their wives' apartments. This is not a holding place for lives that belong in two separate worlds. _This_ is our Place Away From Home, our Alternate Loft in the 'Burbs, our summer beach house when we're not living at our winter palace.

 _Husband._

It's going to take some work to catch up, and I'm failing miserably. He remembers years of a life together that I do not. He has an intimate knowledge of me that is acutely one-sided. He has held me and touched me in ways that make me feel like a stranger now just to look at him.

"Thanks for the open invite." His tone is deliberately light but I can hear the anger beneath it. "It's a good thing we shook on it."

"Puck, I didn't mean it like that," I try to repair the damage. "I don't . . . this is new for me. And I'm still getting over . . . um . . ."

 _Great, Sabrina. Stick your foot in all the way and twist cruelly, why don't you?_

"Oh, of course. You're trapped in a love triangle from hell. On the one hand, there's the husband you can't remember that you keep leaving. On the other, there's the lover you can't forget but who's gone because he. Isn't. Real!"

"Puck, no. Don't do this. I'm sorry! I thought you said you weren't in a hurry. Didn't you say that earlier? That you could wait?"

"I said I'd wait for _you_! I didn't say I'd wait for _him_ to catch up with _us_!"

" _He_ isn't real!"

"Then why are you acting like he _is_?"

". . . "

My head has started to pound. I know the answer. I know what my mind tells me, unstable though it is. And I also know that my heart is saying differently: I've loved a phantom, and that love doesn't conveniently dissipate simply because my waking has turned him into vapor.

But I cannot say this to Puck. I cannot tell him that he must share my heart with a figment of my desire until I feel claustrophobic enough to open the door. Until I find a safe place for Bradley to go when he leaves, as he must. Is it not enough for Puck that he will be the one allowed to stay?

Clearly not, because he is standing before me, his anguish disguised as fury.

"I cannot believe," he begins, seething, "that you're leaving me _again_! While you're _standing right here_! You don't even need to walk away to do it!"

"Puck. . ."

"You win. You win. I lose. How much worse can it get? This time it's for a dude you dreamt up. Not real. Imaginary! And you still want him more than me." He yanks on his wedding ring, trying to pull it off, but it's stuck, and he swears, and slams his fist into my wall, breaking plaster and drywall.

I rush over to him and grab his arm. "Stop, Puck! I'm not leaving you! I'm not leaving you! I want you! Stop!"

Not my most eloquent argument, but I pray it is enough.

Puck stops, glances at me long and hard, standing with both hands on the wall.

I take his hand, bruised and bleeding, and turn him toward me.

After a long time, he finally speaks.

"What was he like?"

"Who? Bradley?" I can't believe he wants to know.

"Yeah."

"He's . . . was . . . kind and good."

"Did he have a face at all? Or was he just a blob of virtue?"

"Of course he had a face."

"Well, what was it like?"

"Puck, why are you doing this?"

"Did he look like me?"

"What? Why? No. No, he didn't. He didn't look like you at all."

"Ah."

"Why is this important?"

"Because maybe you wanted someone that wasn't me."

I'm too tired for psychoanalysis. But I know what he is getting at. And it's dangerous ground, especially if I don't field the ball he's tossed. So I do.

"When I thought - believed - you'd left me, I . . . I must've picked someone who didn't remind me of you. I wasn't trying to un-choose you; I was trying to move on, to not keep hurting. Bradley was everything that wouldn't hurt me, do you understand? Now I know that I got the plot wrong, Puck. And so the character in the story doesn't work anymore. He . . . gets axed. But the people reading the story have gotten used to him, and they even liked him in the story before they knew it was the wrong story. And it's hard for them to just forget that they liked him in the old story. Do you get it?"

He digests this, his hand still in mine.

"You're the real thing, Puck," I continue. "And I meant what I said about loving and wanting you. You have to believe me. It's just that I'm still getting used to you being my . . . husband."

I breathe in, and say the next words carefully.

"I get that we're married. After all, this isn't the first time someone's landed that on me." I try for the grin I'm not quite ready to give - and I'm sure my face looks constipated more than anything else. "It's what it _means_ that I'm still trying to figure out. Like how, because we're married, this is automatically our place. And, because we're married, where will we sleep tonight? And whether . . . when we'll . . . uh . . ."

 _And how, because we're married, every touch is now filled with layers of meaning, just like when we were eleven and I came back from the future with secrets between us, about us._

He stares into the distance, thinking. Then he covers our clasped hands with his uninjured one, his wedding band still dull against his skin.

"I'll take the couch," he says, and from his tone, I sense that the storm is past.

"Don't be silly. You can have half the bed." I suddenly recall a similar conversation in London, when _he_ had been the one with the secrets.

He raises his eyebrow skeptically but doesn't say a word more as he turns, pulling me along with him. He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. Then he lets me go, moves to the couch and sinks down on his back onto the cushions.

"Goodnight," he murmurs, his arm thrown over his eyes.

I am both disappointed and relieved as I crawl into bed alone. In the darkness, I listen to our breathing. When his slows and I hear soft snores, I exhale and let myself think about Bradley. I need to mourn, and I push through the insulating shock until I find the tears that can tell me this is real and that he is gone. I cry silently, swallowing the memories with each stifled breath and releasing him bit by bit as I let it out.

I grieve for what seem like hours.

Then the covers shift and Puck slides in next to me. I freeze and shrug on the pretense of calm, but Puck is not deceived, and his arms go around me, pulling me against him under the sheets.

"I . . . I thought you were asleep," I whisper in ragged staccato.

"Light sleeper these days; too much on my mind. And I'm used to hearing you cry yourself to sleep. Sometimes." He shifts to tuck my head under his chin. "I thought maybe you could use a distraction. You always did, anyway, when you were sad at night."

"What kind of distraction?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"What kind do you want?" He whispers back.

I stiffen. Oddly, the idea does not feel unpleasant. Heaven knows I've wanted this - _him_ \- for a while, anyway, even when I believed he was forbidden to me. But I don't want him to do this _for_ me, as if it were a sacrifice, or a favor, like topping up the gas in my car or taking out the trash.

"Only if it means more to you than just a distraction." I turn my head so he catches my words.

After a heartbeat, "It's _never_ just that for me."

Another heartbeat, and I turn in his arms, so that we are face-to-face with just ions of space between us. I brush my leg against his. His fingers glide along the length of my thigh and stop on my hip, squeezing lightly. He tucks his face into my neck and gently nuzzles, like he did when Rhogin was watching us in the hotel in London. Except this time it isn't for show, and there's no reason to stop. I trace the outline of his jaw and ears with my thumbs and thread my fingers into his hair, still damp from his shower. His hand slides over my waist, my belly, and when he pauses below my ribcage, I whisper, "I'm all healed."

"Good." His voice is dark and low and his hand continues upward, speeding my heart with his touch. I breathe out his name and I hear him sigh, "I've missed you so much, love." I hold him and stammer against his neck that I'm still not ready tonight and I'm sorry and I don't know what or when or how. But he shakes his head and repeats that it's okay, we have forever; we can take our time.

And then his mouth, no longer speaking, is on mine, hot and slow, promising that, even waiting, there are still _plenty_ of other things we can do on this side of bliss.


	23. Chapter 22

I wake to the tinny ringtone of a cellphone.

I slip out of bed and head toward the sound.

It's Daphne.

"Sabrina? Oh, thank goodness. When Puck didn't call yesterday, we thought . . . where is he, anyway? His phone must be dead or something. Are you okay? What happened?"

So many questions. I rub my eyes awake and tell Daphne that everything's good.

She doesn't buy it for a minute.

"Where's Puck? Is he there? Put him on!"

Slightly offended that my sister would take the word of the Trickster King over mine, I pad back to the bed and poke Puck. He groans and continues sleeping.

"He's not waking up, Daph," I inform her.

"He stayed the night? So you kissed and made up. Excellent. Get him on the phone!"

I blink, wondering at Daphne's bossiness, then pull the blankets off Puck and shove the phone against his ear.

"Daphne wants to talk to you," I say loudly, very thankful that it's just a voice call and not video.

He snatches the phone, carrying on a one-sided conversation that his incoherent mumbling makes even harder to follow.

I give up listening and drag my feet to the shower, thinking longingly of breakfast.

But when I look in the mirror, my skin crawls.

Bradley is behind me, his bare back visible as he bends to pick something off the floor.

I yell for Puck, and he throws the door open. I have my eyes squeezed shut, my body curled under the sink, fingers pointing toward the corner, gasping about Bradley.

And then there are lights behind my eyes, tunneling at breakneck speed toward the darkness, pulling me with them.

* * *

When I open my eyes again, I am looking up at a vaulted ceiling, embellished with curling tendrils in gold and green. I blink and look around, taking in open bay windows and sheer curtains that look like dragonfly wings, through which warm sunlight pours into the room. I am lying on a simple bed; next to it is a small nightstand in beautifully crafted wood, on top of which sits a large stone bowl filled with water, a washcloth draped over its rim. The room is gorgeous - rich without looking ostentatious, decorated in shades of vanilla, green and gold. It is familiar, as if I have been here before, but I can't quite place it.

This is ridiculous.

It feels as if in the past week, all I've been doing is losing consciousness and waking up in different places, most of which are strange and unfamiliar. I look around for someone to ask the same standard questions - Where am I? How did I get here? How long have I been out? - but the room is empty and there is nothing but silence.

I get up, amazed again at how clear my head feels, not at all like what I'd expect after fainting like a useless damsel in distress. I feel fabric move on my skin and I look down to see that I am wearing a kind of loose white gown - someone must have dressed me since my spill in the bathroom. I walk to the door and open it, peering out into a hallway beyond.

"Hello?" I call into the silence.

I pick a direction and walk along the hallway, turning around corners and seeing more doors. It is like a hotel - ornate and well-kept, the plush carpet underfoot swallowing noise as I pad aimlessly.

"Hello? Anyone here?" I call again, and turn another corner.

And jump.

A young man, set for imminent collision, checks his step and grabs my shoulders to keep our balance. He is in a business suit, and has a lean, handsome face with bright blue eyes and neatly combed blonde hair. His face is as familiar as the room I'd just left, but not enough that I remember his name.

"Sabrina!" He says. "I'm sorry we almost had an accident. Are you alright?"

"Do I know you?" I wonder aloud, suddenly aware that I am wandering barefoot and in a somewhat inappropriate nightgown. I suspect that from the neck up, I'm equally unpresentable.

"I'm Mustardseed." He sounds slightly taken aback. "Your brother-in-law?"

"Mustardseed!" I exclaim, feeling the memory of his face and stoic personality return as I say his name. "Of course! I . . . I didn't recognize you."

"No doubt you are still disoriented from your blackout," he assures me kindly, offering his arm. "Shall we return to your room? I will let the others know you are awake."

I take his arm, glad that I don't have to navigate the way back myself.

"Where is this?" I ask, as we walk.

"Faerie. Don't you recognize it?"

"Faerie? As in, Puck's Faerie?" I spit out before I can think. "Er . . . and also _your_ Faerie." I quickly correct my omission.

"The one and only!" A voice calls out and there is Puck, emerging from around a corner in the maze of corridors. "Well, look at you, Grimm. Floating around on my brother's arm like a ghost, scaring the living daylights out of everyone you meet. You must be feeling better!"

He smiles at Mustardseed and flicks his thumb in my direction. "I'll take it from here, brother. This one has a tendency to space out. Worst case of Needs Saving I've ever seen. Case in point: just in the seconds after she left her room, I heard her yelling for someone to rescue her."

Mustardseed rolls his eyes as he grins and walks off, saying, "I'll never understand marriage."

"Shut up, Puck." I shove him as I take his arm. "I can't help it. I keep waking up in strange places."

"Like I said . . ."

I am about to shove him again when he turns to look at me, his brow furrowing quickly before he flicks his gaze away from my eyes.

I remember what I'd seen in the bathroom.

"Did I imagine it? Him?" I whisper.

He says, just as quietly, "There was nobody there."

"What's happening to me, Puck?"

"I don't know. But that's why you're here, so Gossamer can help you. Bunny's here, too. She came along with everyone else when you blacked out. They - Gossamer and Bunny - locked themselves in one of the rooms since she got here, and haven't come out. They're having some kind of secret medical pow wow, we think. They said to call them when you woke up. The cheek of it - giving _me_ orders, when I'm the King!"

"So now that I'm awake, we can find out what's wrong with me?"

"That's the plan, yeah. You feeling okay?"

"Apart from my crazy eyes and these blackouts and imaginary boyfriends? Yeah, I'm great." I quip.

"You're still thinking about him." Puck turns to me, his voice accusing.

I remember something, which makes me stop us in our tracks.

"I remember you! I mean, I haven't changed my mind and decided to leave you! I still want you!"

He looks at me, sullenness changing to amusement.

"Why, thank you for that love confession! Especially since it was loud enough for all of Faerie to hear!"

Embarrassed, I slap my hand over my eyes. "Darn. I forgot where we were. I was just so excited that, you know, I didn't wake up and forget you. You know what I mean, Puck!"

He is still smiling, but it is no longer mischievous. "Yes, I do. And I'm really, really glad."

"So there's hope for us?"

"There'd better be. I'm not letting you get away again."

We've reached the door of my room and we enter. It is familiar to me now that I know where we are, and more details come to mind as I look around: this is where I saw the silver-haired fairy woman in my vision. It is like a hospital ward - the name _healing room_ enters my mind - and I have been here before; have lain on that same bed; have felt both pain and relief here.

I sit back on the bed, while Puck, standing beside me, fingers my hair.

"Are we good now?" I ask him, suddenly shy.

He smiles. "Yeah."

"This marriage thing isn't half bad," I say.

"Told ya it had its perks," he murmurs. "You know, maybe Gossamer and Bunny are still in their conference and we could lock the door and . . ."

Our clandestine plan goes kaput as we hear a knock.

Daphne, Basil, Mom and Dad, enter, along with Bunny and another woman - the fairy whom I recognize from my visions, the one with the kind face and the long silver hair.

"Whoa." I exclaim, surprised. "Where's the party?"

The nameless fairy comes to me and smiles. "Sabrina," she says, her voice soft and musical. "I'm glad to see you again. Do you remember me?"

When I shake my head, she says, "I'm Gossamer - Cobweb's daughter. We're friends, although I think you don't remember it. I'm also your healer - well, I serve the royal family, I mean, so in that sense I am your healer. How are you feeling?"

"Great," I say. "Physically, anyway. Mentally, it's another story - I'm a nutcase, apparently."

"It's a family trait," Puck says sardonically, looking at Dad. "The Grimms are all like that. Can't help your genes, I guess."

Dad doesn't rise to Puck's jibe and, instead, addresses Gossamer. "What's happening with Sabrina?"

Gossamer inhales and motions for everyone to sit.

"Bunny and I have been talking," she says, "and I'm afraid it's not good news. That bit of the mirror in Sabrina is taking over her more and more. At first, it was slow, and mostly in her mind, rewriting her memories. Now, it's affecting her physical body as well, resulting in the hallucinations, the blackouts, the fatigue."

I don't believe what I'm hearing; it's utter nonsense. But then I hear Daphne's voice.

"Why is it doing this to her?"

Gossamer says gently, "It needs a host."

"Like Mirror," I say, horrified, recalling dark memories.

Gossamer turns to me, her wide eyes sad. "Yes. Except this is just a shard, not the entire essence, thankfully. It's not strong enough to fully possess you, but it still needs to keep you alive and non-threatening to its presence inside you."

"Can't we get it out of her?" Puck interrupts, and I am hit by a sense of deja vu - he'd said the same thing years ago when this same magic had first made me sick.

Gossamer looks at Bunny, who has been silent all this time.

Bunny speaks. "No. Not any more than back in the war when it first entered her. She'll eventually die. She should've died during the war, actually. But that massive outflow of magic to Mirror himself must have drained that shard inside her and forced it into a dormant state."

In the horrified silence that follows, I notice that Mom and Dad look resigned and tired. Daphne's face is crumpling and Basil looks grim and angry. But nobody looks shocked or incredulous like I feel, and none of them denies this angrily, challenges Bunny's statement, or protests in any other way - all natural reactions to a death sentence ; it's as if they are already aware of this and are simply depressed at having to hear it again.

How long have they known this?

"Well," I break the silence. "Last time, I let the magic build in me and let it out and . . ."

" . . . and we thought it worked. But it didn't," Gossamer finishes. "There is no cure that we know of. I've looked and searched and asked everyone I thought might know something."

"It's _your_ mirror!" Puck explodes suddenly at Bunny. He is the only other person in the room who is reacting normally. "You made those mirrors! You must know how to stop it! She's not going to die!"

"She is." Bunny's voice softens. "And we are going to let her."

Puck's eyes widen in amazement and disbelief, stunned into silence.

Then he throws himself at Bunny.

Bunny raises her hands to defend herself, throwing out a protective pulse of energy. It hits Puck like an invisible tremor in the air, but he recovers and advances again. Dad and Basil move to hold him back, Dad shouting at him to stop and listen to whatever else Bunny has to say.

Gossamer's quiet voice rises above the tumult, surprisingly forceful. "Your Majesty! Hear us out! There is more. Let us explain!"

Puck turns his head at her words. He stops struggling against Dad, but he's still snarling at Bunny. He roughly shakes off the hands restraining him.

Bunny says, calmly, "Sabrina has to die. It's the only way to get rid of the magic. It needs a living host - as Gossamer said, whatever is in Sabrina is too small to seek out a new host itself, as Mirror did during the war. It is going to use her as its host for as long as she is alive. But if she dies, it no longer has a living host, and it, too, will die, so to speak."

"But I'll be _dead_." I state the obvious, finally finding my voice.

"All this time you _knew_? And you never thought to _tell me_?" Puck unleashes a string of words to express exactly how he feels about that, and Mom winces.

Something occurs to me and I ask, "What about those fairy cocoons? Puck was practically dead when Cobweb put him in one of those, and it worked. And I was in one, too. It sucked out the poison from my body. Can't they suck out the magic? "

Gossamer says, "This isn't poison or an injury. This is possession - two essences sharing the same body. When the body dies, they must vacate it. It is the only way, but in losing one, we will lose the other - Sabrina herself."

I speak again, arguing in my own defense, "And the alternative is I continue living and gradually losing my reality?"

Bunny replies, "There is no alternative. Maybe there was with some people, like your Grandmother when Mirror took over her body and mind. Unfortunately, your magic addiction magnified the effect that small shard had on you and created all those false situations and scenarios. It's self-preservation - how the magic protects itself."

Gossamer continues, and her voice is gentler than Bunny's businesslike pronouncement of my doom. "Now, while there is no cure, we think there might be a solution. As I said, two essences are sharing your body, Sabrina. And that body must die so they can vacate it. Then, when the body is brought back to life, it should have returned to its normal state - it will have only one essence in it. Ideally, that essence would be _you_."

She pauses, and lets what she has just said sink in.

Brought back to life?

My eyes are wide and staring and I feel gears turning in my head as I look at Mom and Dad.

The elixir.

It was never for Briar.

It was for _me_.

And Mom and Dad had known all along. As well as Daphne and Basil, judging from their non-astounded expressions.

I shift my gaze to Puck, who's been following the discussion in livid silence, his hands in fists at his side. His face now sags in shock as he connects the dots himself.

They hadn't told him, either.

"We've never given up, hope," Mom says, glancing between Puck and me. "We're getting you back somehow. There must be ways. People are resurrected all the time - magic spells, true love's kisses, things like that."

"Technically, those weren't real deaths, simply states of suspended animation," Basil counters, but not unkindly. "This elixir is really the only thing we know of right now that actually brings back dead people. Although _how_ it works is a mystery - I mean, it's not as if a corpse has the muscle reflexes to swallow anything, nor the digestive system to assimilate it."

He's right - I did think of that while talking to Rhogin back in his London hotel room. And what about the un-recently dead? The ones that were no more than piles of empty bones? What must the power of the elixir be like to reanimate bones with non-existent flesh? It just added fuel to my fire of disbelief.

"I don't know," I say. "I've seen a lot of magical things but this sounds like a long shot. A _really_ long shot. How do you know that's what it does?"

Bunny takes a breath and we turn our attention to her.

"Because I made it," she says.

"You? Why?"

"To cheat death. Prolong life. Isn't every sorcerer's secret or not-so-secret ambition to find or create a fountain of youth? It turns out I couldn't do that any more than I could stay the most beautiful woman in the universe. Ironic, really - that I could create something out of nothing but not preserve that forever. Anyway, I tried, and it didn't work, and somehow, quite by accident, my fountain of youth became this elixir. And the catch was that you'd have to die after all, in order to use it."

"Has it ever worked?" Puck asks. I hadn't told him the details of my conversation with Rhogin, and he doesn't know about the Goblin Prince's own experiments.

"I've never tried it on a human, just a couple of recently-dead birds and one raccoon." Bunny arches her brow at Daphne. "I didn't kill them, by the way - predators did."

"And?"

"They came back to life. The birds lived on. But the raccoon didn't. I figured that maybe you'd have to have not been dead too long. The raccoon was old roadkill."

"So we know it works on birds," Basil says dryly.

 _And goblins_ , I add silently.

"But not on mammals," Puck disclaims, despondent.

"That were pulverized too long ago," Daphne clarifies.

"I didn't try it on anything else," Bunny continues, "Because one day, it disappeared from my house. I eventually found out that Mirror took it. And then it was stolen from him by one of his treacherous lackeys, the fool. And somebody else stole it from _him_ , and I lost track of it over the years. Until we recently discovered it ended up with the goblins."

"Thanks to Basil. And Synapse," Daphne says, pride in her voice.

Basil clears his throat. "Ahem. Yes, yours truly: hardworking student by day, genius social networker and researcher by night. Welcome to the new frontiers of lifestyle and community technology, sis. I invented Synapse, and Synapse found the elixir."

I shake my head, clearly missing something.

Basil looks affronted. "You haven't heard of Synapse? It's only the latest phenomenon! I suppose you're still using an iPhone 6, too, you backward country bumpkin!"

I blink at him, deciding not to confess that my laptop is still a slave to the generosity of random internet hot spots in cafes and hotels.

"So . . ." he continues, sighing loudly and patronizingly, " . . . Synapse. Connects everyone to everyone. And -"

"Like Facebook," I offer.

"No! Not like Facebook!" He slaps his forehead. "I mean everyone to everyone. Like _not in this world everyone_. And not in this _time_ everyone. With it, you can find out anything about anyone anytime anywhere. Think facts versus old wives' tales. Or validating historical records and legends. And what people looked like for real instead of just artists' impressions."

"That's invading people's privacy!" I say, slightly horrified. "What if they don't want to be connected to, or found out about?"

"Psh. We're not invading their privacy. We're not really interested in individual people's lives and what music they listen to or where they went to college or other lame facts like that. Look, we use it to find out things that are otherwise lost to us because the connections are long dead, or inter-dimensional, or on some planet or universe that's too far away physically. And we do it by jumping the connections between people or creatures or things, living or dead or inanimate or spirit or anything. Get it?"

Not really.

"Well, it sounds like Facebook For Fantasy Worlds," I say at last.

Basil grips his face in clawed hands and makes a choking sound.

"Useless. You're all useless." He groans behind his fingers. "Alright, forget I tried to explain it to you old farts. Anyway, it's beyond awesome. But there are limitations. Magical blocks, for instance. Sometimes there are shields and walls and mods that interfere with the connections. Like you, Sabrina - we couldn't find you because the magic in you distorted reality and deliberately changed the connections between real you and real life. So we couldn't trace you, or even find out that you were making up this alternate existence. It's complicated. But we're missing the point. We were talking about the elixir. We found it through some interesting connections and pinpointed its location as being with the goblins. Exactly where in the goblin community was kinda vague. Now knowing the Goblin King's crazy mind powers, I understand why we couldn't get a real fix on it."

"That, and it changed hands quite a few times even within the goblin royal family," I add, remembering how Rhogin stole it from his mother, who was hiding it in the castle.

"Like I said," Basil reiterates, "Any number of factors."

"And now it's back with us," Dad finishes. "Full circle."

"Uh," Puck interjects, looking at me.

Which makes everyone look at us.

Mom finally speaks, hope and dread mingled in her tone. "You did get it, didn't you?"

Puck answers through clenched teeth, "There was a slight problem."

Dad barks, "What problem?"

Up till now, we hadn't told anyone about the Goblin King's plan of world domination. Somehow, my chronic collapsing at the drop of a hat took priority over Everafter Armageddon, I guess. I consider how to broach the subject - I suppose we could censor some of the facts and just mention that the Goblin Prince still has it and isn't willing to share.

So I say, "The Goblin Prince has it and doesn't want to share."

"And by that," Puck adds helpfully, "She means he wants to use it to overthrow his evil father in an epic act of treason to start a civil war and save the world. Which, if you think carefully about, is really a nobler and more efficient use of limited resources than saving one sick human."

So much for keeping things simple.

"Explain," Bunny says, frowning.

After exchanging a look of mutual accusation that screamed, " _You_ started this", Puck and I give our report. Talking about another impending, global catastrophe helps distract us from the more personal one that grips my heart with cold gloom, because Puck almost relaxes into his storytelling and I feel almost detached from the impending combined disaster. When we finish, there is a heavy silence in the room.

Then, Gossamer speaks. "That's not right. What he's doing to the Everafters - it's an atrocity."

"He's freaking insane," Puck agrees. "But he's doing it, like it or not, and he's building his army and I hate to say this, but I can see Rhogin's point."

"Anyway, Puck's agreed to help him raise his zombie army," I finish. "The King can't mind-control the dead, apparently, so it's Rhogin's only hope."

"But they won't be dead once the elixir acts on them," Basil points out logically. "So won't the elixir have been wasted?"

"Maybe Rhogin hasn't thought it through," I say. "Or maybe he knows something we don't. Like maybe zombie-dead is different than true-dead. Regardless, he has the elixir and we can't just steal it from him. It might start a war!"

"Which is starting anyway," Daphne says. "It's a horrible plan, actually."

I have to agree. But the real issue is that we aren't any closer to recovering the elixir.

Dad frowns. "Can we bargain?"

"How?" Gossamer refutes. "He needs an army that's immune to the King. He only has one dose. He's not going to give it up for just anything."

"And we still don't know for sure if it will work on Sabrina," Mom says, her voice wavering.

"No harm trying," Bunny defends crisply. "It's not as if she has another option."

"No, she doesn't," Puck says quietly, his voice ominously calm. "It _will_ work."

Everyone turns to look at him.

"Well, surprise: I believe in magic, okay? I don't need faith or whatever to know magic works. The magic inside Sabrina will kill her, because that's what _that_ magic does. And Bunny's potion will wake her up, because that's what _that_ magic does."

"Elixir." Everyone corrects him.

"Potion! Elixir! Wine! Beer! Happy sloshy! Whatever!" Puck raises his voice in exasperation. "Sabrina," He takes my hand. "Bad news, honey: you're going to die. Good news: so will the bad magic. And then we'll dump the whatsit down your hatch and I'll see you again in a couple. And we'll all live happily ever after. That's what magical people do, right?"

I notice that his voice is shaking slightly, and breaks on the last few words.

"Hey. What happened to the 'I don't need faith' speech?" I ask him.

Puck swallows and takes a deep breath, then gives me a look of such intense tenderness that I feel a warm rush to my eyes.

"Doesn't mean I like watching you die."

Suddenly, I don't need memories to tell me what we were like before.

Then he turns and speaks to everyone, sounding imperious. "Excuse me. I need to deal with something. I'll be back as soon as I can. And for heaven's sake, don't let Sabrina go wandering around and getting into all kinds of trouble. Strap her to the bed or something, just so she gets some rest."

Gossamer's voice rises over the murmuring of my family. "Your Majesty! Perhaps she might prefer a different room while she recovers?"

Puck raises a quizzical eyebrow and I look questioningly at her, too, as, in a shaky voice, she clarifies, "This is the room where we . . . where we lost your child."

Puck pulls himself to his full height and his voice, while quiet, rings out with the authority that I am still getting used to hearing.

"This is also the room where you saved Sabrina's life. Therefore, it's a good room. She stays."

Gossamer dips her head respectfully.

Puck speaks again, deadly serious. "And she is _not_ dying on my watch, or yours."

And before anyone can say anything else, the door shuts behind him.

* * *

 **A/N: So now we all need to go re-read the Prologue: it wasn't about Jake and Briar, after all.**


	24. Chapter 23

Apparently, the shock of hearing your own death sentence does not wear off, even after a good night's sleep. I've heard - and can now personally verify - that the actual moment of receiving the news is crystal clear, but the days and weeks following are a haze.

After Puck left the room, everyone had continued to sit uncomfortably, not looking at anyone else. I remember thinking about how strange it was that no one was emotional; each person seemed to be deep in thought in some way, as if they were processing some interesting factoid of no personal relevance. While I'd been somewhat relieved that it wasn't a tear-fest, I'd also been a little confused that no one was more upset that they were losing me. Perhaps I'd been really awful as a mentally-compromised recluse that my death would be a welcome relief. Or maybe (as I'd suspected) they'd known it all along and were thus already several steps ahead of me in the grieving process.

Either way, I'd felt somewhat let down by their seeming apathy.

Gossamer had eventually ushered everyone out, saying I needed to rest. There was so much left unsaid but she'd declared, in that forceful yet quiet way of hers, that it could wait till morning.

I was exhausted and relieved to be left alone with my thoughts, and secretly hopeful of a chance to talk to Gossamer alone - not only because she awed me, but also because we were supposed to have been good friends before my mind went off the deep end. Also, I was curious about what Puck had been up to when he left the room, but Gossamer, calm as always, had said, "His Majesty is probably coping with the news in his own way," and had me drink something that made it very difficult to keep my eyes open.

I'd slept through the night.

* * *

The next morning, I wake to the sight of Gossamer in a halo of warm sunshine, watching me.

She smiles and asks about my night. I answer, like the obliging patient that I am, but inside I yearn to reach out to her and discover the confidant that remains on the other side of my memory.

"I don't need to keep sleeping," I suggest. "Every time I black out, I wake up feeling fine."

"Until the next episode," she says, without malice.

I sigh. "Yes, until the next episode."

"And they are getting closer together, aren't they?"

I've noticed that, too. Especially when Puck is around.

"But I'm still able to tell what's real and what's not, "I point out, feeling both optimistic and defensive. "Better now than before this trip."

"I have a theory," Gossamer continues. "Do you want to hear it?"

I tell her _Duh_ with my face, not caring that it's not at all a queenly thing to do. Because I still don't feel like a queen.

"The magic in you is antagonistic to other magic, particularly magic that threatens it. So it changes your reality in your mind to embrace situations where the threat is low. Right?"

I nod, and she goes on.

"When you are near strong magic, like Puck's, or while you are here in Faerie, it reacts, but it's not powerful enough to maintain that false reality, so you're still able to stay in the real world. Instead, it shuts _you_ down with blackouts and the like. The stronger the magic it comes against, the more frequent and intense those blackouts are. Eventually, those blackouts will be permanent, and you'll die."

"So being with Puck is both helping me stay sane, and killing me."

"A Catch-22, as they say in your world."

"And we can't cure it."

"No more than we can destroy a parasite without also killing the host, My Lady."

 _My Lady_.

Suddenly Oriel's words to me make sense. I had been his Queen. And I failed him. I push aside the guilt; there is no point beating myself up over what I can no longer change.

"Gossamer, do you believe this elixir will work?"

She sighs. "I must be honest: I don't know. While it is not the kind familiar to Fae, it is still strong magic. Bunny is a powerful sorceress, even now that she is blind, and she was at the height of her power when she made the elixir. So I am hopeful, certainly. But I don't know if that hope is founded in faith in this potion or if it is desperation in the absence of other options."

I must die, then.

Oddly, there is a relief in finally accepting it, and with it comes a determination to make the most of my short life. I will not go out sobbing and afraid.

"But Puck will not accept it," I realize aloud. "Will you help him see that it's the only way?"

Gossamer looks at me. "Oh, there is no doubt that His Majesty will call down fire and brimstone, My Lady. Our people can see it - the way he loves you. If you had known him in all the years he was a child that would not grow older, you would understand why it is no small matter that he has aged for you. He has lost many things and the greatest, I think, was losing both you and your child in that same moment when the magic took hold of you. I cannot convince him, not with all my knowledge of medicine and healing. I don't think even my father could. But _you_ can - make him believe that you will come back after you die, and that you will come back _yourself_ \- the Sabrina Grimm that he loves, and who loves him."

I am silent for a while, taking in her beautiful, impassioned speech. I reach out to touch her arm.

"They . . . they've said that before . . . we were friends, Gossamer. Is that true?"

She smiles, dimples appearing in her cheeks. "Yes. But not in the sense that we would walk in the gardens and pick flowers and talk about the latest fashions or boys we fancied. After all, you are the Queen and I am your healer. But we told each other things, and you came to me for advice, and we . . . felt safe with each other. You liked me because I told you the truth."

"I don't remember that, and I'm sorry," I say. "What kind of advice did I ask for?"

"Well, all kinds of things - for instance, things to do with being Queen of a race you were just beginning to get to know, and . . . other things. . . things that perhaps one might prefer discussing only with one's physician."

"Like?" I wonder if I had been sick before.

Her smile widens and her eyes glint. "Like . . . your wedding night. Oh, not that you were completely inexperienced. But you were interested in how Fae males differed from human men and if there were . . . particular things that His Majesty might especially enjoy."

I am blushing heavily by the time she pauses, before her smile fades and she looks away into the distance.

"And you comforted me about my father's death. You were the only person I shared my grief with, even though it was some years after that I felt able to talk about it. You'd think that being immortal and living for centuries, we'd have more experience than most with death. But the truth is that we hardly ever lose the ones we love and when we do, the idea of the rest of our long lives without them is unimaginably painful. You understood that."

"If we were - are - friends, will you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Stop calling me 'My Lady'. Call me whatever you used to call me - what _did_ you call me?"

"Sabrina. When it was just the two of us."

"Sabrina, then. I have too many old things to learn again now, and it will be a relief to be who I was with you . . . Goss."

She winces slightly. "You only called me that when I wasn't letting you get your way."

"Perfect, then. I have a feeling I'm going to be disobeying you quite a bit if you keep making me stay in bed."

She laughs, rising and holding out her hand to me.

"Well, you've missed breakfast, but you're in time for lunch. And you can have it with your family - you're well enough to leave the healing rooms. Tonight you will sleep in your own suite. It's much nicer than this room, so you'll be much happier. Not to mention -" she smiles at me again, " - that His Majesty will be glad to have you back."

* * *

We have lunch in a large, sunny dining room decorated in the same curlicued style as the healing rooms, but in silver and green. Bright, sweet-smelling flowers sit in vases on the tables and sideboards and peek out of topiaries rising from beautiful pots in the corners. The dining room opens out beyond ceiling-high doors onto a bright lawn where pretty things flutter through shrubs bright with color. At first I think they are butterflies, but when some of them fly right up to the bay windows, I realize they are pixies.

It's incongruous, somehow, all this gorgeous sunshine and resplendent nature, with the idea that I am dying. I push the thought away, and remind myself that I will not give in to fear and uselessness; I will make each remaining day of each remaining week count.

My family are already seated when I enter, dressed in my regular jeans and T-shirt, my hair tied back in a ponytail. Puck is nowhere to be seen.

Daphne is first out of her chair, and she beams at me.

"Your Highness!" She says with a mock bow. "Thank you for your gracious hospitality!"

With a start, I remember that I am supposed to be Queen of this world and head of this household, even if the actual remembering is still beyond me.

"Not mine," I correct her. "If you got any free food or good service, it'd be thanks to Puck. _I_ was out cold, remember?"

"Aw, you know what I mean," she continues, linking her arm in mine and dragging me to the table, one hand sweeping around us. "Do you remember any of this? The multiple-course meals of _normal_ food you had the kitchen make? The dinner parties with dignitaries? The dancing?"

I shake my head. "Were they any good?"

"They were fantabulous!" She sighs. "All those handsome Fae warriors to dance with, with their serious faces and gorgeous hair. It was such fun to try to get them to smile. The glorious gowns I got to wear, and the desserts… aaaah. And the music! Oh, the music! Such pretty music they have in Faerie."

"I've heard." I smile, thinking of the wedding song Puck and I had danced to in my apartment. "Not that I remember any."

"Not even from before?" She frowns. "Oh, yeah. We didn't really hang out in Faerie till just before your wedding. You always preferred being in New York City because it was less fancy and you could keep wearing jeans and whatnot. Anyway, come eat."

And eat I do - the food is marvelous, and it is so good to be with my family again. But I notice that the conversations are a little forced, that the smiles don't quite reach anyone's eyes, and that more food is left on plates than actually eaten. My prognosis hangs over us like a shroud and I find that I am angry for it.

So I rise, push back my chair and announce that I'd like to take a walk in the gardens, and would anyone else like to come? Everyone gets up and dutifully follows, as if I am truly the Queen who has given an order, rather than the daughter who's looking for some company. When we are out through the doors and everyone is still uncomfortably standing around, looking everywhere but at me, I decide enough's enough.

"Let's get the elephant out of the room, shall we?" I begin. "I feel great, I don't think I'm going to keel over anytime today, or soon, and I am okay talking about it."

There is a moment of awkward silence, and then I feel something in the air lift, as if people are exhaling and waking up. Dad catches my eye and smiles at me, the first genuine smile I've seen since I woke up in the healing rooms in this palace that is my home.

Mom finally comes over to me, wrapping me in an embrace.

"You knew all along," I say to her, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice.

"Yes," she agrees.

No excuses. No justifications.

"Why?"

"Why didn't we tell you? Because we're your family and we love you and we wanted to protect you by first trying everything we knew to find a way to prevent it."

"And Puck didn't know, either?"

"No. Can you imagine? He'd have gone ballistic. What a pair you'd have made: one resigned, and the other manic, driven to fool's errand after fool's errand, trying to save you. He's already lost you once, and the baby."

 _Resigned? Me?_

"Thanks, Mom."

Daphne reaches out, a hand on my arm. She must hear my sarcasm, because she says it's the fault of the mirror shard, dulling my fighting spirit, turning all the parts of me, _not me_.

"We didn't know how soon it could . . . happen." Dad adds. "Bunny said it could be days, or weeks, or years. And we didn't want it to happen while you and Puck were still -"

" At each other's throats," Basil suggests.

"- estranged," Dad continues, glaring at Basil. "So when we found out about the elixir, and got that first lead in London, we thought we'd send you to find it - maybe some adventure might help jog your memory of what you were like before. And maybe some time with Puck, doing something non-threatening, might help you sort things out."

"If there were any way other than keeping it a secret, we'd have done it. We wanted it to be hopeful rather than hopeless," Mom finishes, holding me a little tighter.

There is a sound behind us and we turn to see Puck striding across the lawn, the sunlight glinting off his golden hair. He is wearing, of all things, an outfit that looks like he's been in tactical training - combat boots, dark canvas cargo pants and a black protective vest over a black T-shirt. My heart does a funny jump when I realize he looks _hot_.

Then he comes closer and I gag, because he smells like an animal shed that hadn't been cleaned out in a very long time.

"There you are!" He calls to us. "Sorry I've been busy and missed lunch. You're not bored entertaining yourselves, are you? And Sabrina - have you been telling the servants to move the rugs again? I keep tripping over them when I walk into our rooms!"

"I just got the okay from Gossamer to leave," I tell him, staring longer than I should. I have hardly any memories of Puck in his element - in charge of his kingdom, not goofing off, not acting juvenile - that it seems I am looking at a stranger.

"And you're . . . alright?"

"I'm fine. But you - why do you smell like a rotting zoo?"

"Because it turns you on," he returns, completely straight-faced, but with a glint in his eye.

"Ugh. Never! I thought we'd gotten rid of the putrid smells when you grew up."

"For better or for worse, honey bunny! You promised in front of all those people!" He grins, and loops an arm around my waist while I shove him off.

"Ahem," Basil clears his throat. "Impressionable youngsters present. Can we tone it down?"

"Seriously," I press. "What _have_ you been up to?"

"Oh, this and that. Obviously if I told you, it would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it? Anyway, I wanted to come and invite you Grimms to stay a few days to be with Sabrina. I'm sure she'd enjoy having you all with her while she's recovering. And - you know, to help her remember things. The wedding, for one - the album is in the library- and Marshmallow could pull up those awesome cake-mashing videos on Youtube. Last I checked, there were like two hundred million views! That's way more than the wedding of that British royal dude everyone's crazy about."

"That's only because the Duke of Cambridge didn't invite half the entire Everafter kingdom to his reception," Basil says, rolling his eyes.

"His loss that he didn't have the right connections." Puck rolls his eyes right back.

"Boys!" Dad mutters. "Yes, Puck, I think we'll take you up on that offer."

"No need to stand on ceremony with me, old man," Puck tells Dad. "My home is your home etc. etc."

Then we see Mustardseed walk toward us, stopping beside Puck to tell him something we can't hear. Puck turns to me and winks. "Gotta go, Grimm. Try not to die. See ya tonight."

He pulls my face to his in a big wet smooch, laughing when I squirm and recoil from his odor. I am still wiping my cheek when he struts off, singing, horribly off-pitch, "Stayin' alive! Stayin' alive! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Stayin' aliiiiiive!"

Dad sighs and looks at Mom. "Tell me again why we're happy our daughter made up with him?"

"At least pick someone who can carry a tune." Basil groans his agreement.

Mustardseed, who has remained behind with us, watches Puck's retreating back for a few seconds before murmuring quietly, almost to himself, "This is the first time I've heard him sing since . . ."

He catches my eye for a moment, then looks away; his glance says _cut him some slack_ , but there is no judgement in it.

Then he clears his throat and grins at Basil, conceding, "Not that I'd exactly call _that_ singing."


	25. Chapter 24

I pass the day with my family in Faerie. And really, were it not for the fact that my death is imminent, it feels like a vacation of the kind I'd always dreamed as children that we'd have: luxurious accommodations, all the food we could want, servers and helpers to tend to our every wish, and the loveliest weather imaginable.

Add to that the slightly surreal realization that this - this palace hidden behind the mortal veil that is Central Park - is my home. And, somewhere in its innards, running the place, is my husband, who is my best friend, and who still makes my heart speed up when he walks into the room.

 _Dream come true_ flits into my thoughts as I smile around at my family.

Followed immediately by the much more pragmatic _pity it isn't going to last_.

I squash the thought. Realist that I am, for the moment, I am going to bask in the _now_ for as long as I am given time to.

Daphne drags me to the library while Mom, Dad and Basil head off to talk with Gossamer. Along the way, she keeps up her steady stream of happy chatter.

"So, Bradley."

"So, Brian," I throw back at her. "And Ronan. And Jonathan. And Jason. And Will. And - what's that boy who was in your Bad Apples class, the one who was really tall?"

"James."

"Yeah, James."

"What about them? They're all real!"

"Yes, but so many of them in just a year - sounds like you're looking for something and they weren't it."

"A year and a half, actually. And they were all, you know, really nice."

"But . . .?"

She doesn't say anything as we enter the library, and for a moment, I, too, am awed into silence: it is a huge, carpeted and furnished room, filled from floor to ceiling with beautifully bound books.

Well, at least one side of it is; as my gaze carries across to the other walls, the books become newer, with more modern bindings and varying heights, so that their organization on the shelves looks increasingly eclectic. Finally, in the far corner, there are a few carts stacked higgledy-piggledy with paperbacks in pristine condition, as if someone had just unpacked them out of shipping boxes but hadn't taken the time to shelve them.

Or read them.

I wonder if the state of the library is a reflection of the fondness of reading of the long line of Fae monarchs - it seems to indicate that it isn't high on the priority list of the most recent of them, or else he was just too busy fighting battles to curl up in front of the fireplace for more academic pursuits.

Daphne walks over to one of the shelves and pulls out a large, leather-bound album.

"Here you go. Best day of your life."

I take it, feeling its weight, realizing that it contains proof of a part of my life that I still cannot believe is real. I sit on one of the plush couches and open it. Daphne collapses into an armchair and watches me.

The first few photographs are artistic shots of lace on a dress, a bouquet of white calla lilies, the gardens of Faerie, a glittering tiara - typical preview images of a wedding day.

I turn the page: a bar of soap and a golden comb.

Daphne must have seen my astonishment, because she guffaws.

"Puck didn't care for those," she giggles when she has at last composed herself. "But you insisted."

I turn another page, and another, and another, and my heart stops.

There I am, in all the classic behind-the-scenes bridal shots: me staring into a mirror while Mom fixes my hair; me hugging Basil, who is clutching some kind of electronic device in one hand; me standing in front of a French window in one of Faerie's resplendent rooms, looking out into the sunshine.

Me in a white column gown. Not jeans (I exhale; I'd been half-afraid).

I follow the pictures of the sunny gardens, of the guests seated in chairs - guests of all kinds - faces of friends from Ferryport Landing, and faces I don't recognize: stately Everafter lords and ladies, Fae and dryad and naiad and chimaera; gay and solemn, young and old and every age in between. And - peppered throughout each photograph, like living confetti - the bright dots of pixies. It is absolutely beautiful, and takes my breath away.

Then there I am, among the crowds, walking toward a young man in a long fitted coat layered over a suit of green and gold and white, his golden hair cropped short and bright in the sunlight, revealing the pointed tips of his ears. He is smirking at me. And I am smiling at him, looking nowhere else, not even at our parents, who are seated an arm's length from where he stands: Mom and Dad, looking glad and proud, and Titania, Queen of Faerie, elegant as always, leaning on Mustardseed and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief fragile as a skeleton leaf.

The photographs progress throughout the ceremony - shots of us exchanging our vows, with the officiating Fae priestess looping strands of silk over our clasped hands, conjuring blessings and sealing covenants with a flick of her wrist and the promises of our lips.

A kiss - _the_ kiss - itself captured perfectly on film, but which pales in comparison to the looks on our faces in the very next shot as we break away in all but our eyes.

The remainder of the album is filled with scenes from the party afterwards: dancing, cake (eaten the usual way as well as decorating our faces), enjoying our guests. It is at once easy and difficult to pick my favorites - Puck stopping mid-dance with his mother to wipe a tear from her cheek with his thumb; Dad telling me something so hilarious that my head is thrown back in raucous laughter; Daphne spinning a tornado of sparkling rose petals with her wand around a group of Fae children.

I come to the last picture - of me collapsed in Puck's lap on the grass, his hand on my cheek, wiping away frosting, his other arm slung around my shoulders as if, rather than having just gotten married, we'd fought a battle and he was checking me for injuries.

It is a masterful piece of art, this album.

"Who took these photos?" I wonder aloud.

"Goldie. She always had an eye for things."

I smile at Daphne. "Her work is amazing. And I'm glad she was there."

Her own smile stays slightly wistful. "Do you remember any of it?"

I shake my head, heartsick.

"It's like looking at my twin," I wave my hand at the photographs. "She looks like me, but she isn't me, because _this_ me has no memory of this wedding."

Daphne hands me her iPhone, sliding next to me on the couch. "More pictures and a couple videos."

I scroll through pictures of our family doing things together - grilling outdoors with Dad while Basil guzzles down soda in the background, Daphne and me in a seaside selfie which Puck photobombs, Puck with his ear on my belly, showing a thumbs-up to the camera.

I swallow.

I'd been barely showing, but it was clear what he'd been so thrilled about.

There are no photos after that one. The videos, Daphne announces, were the notorious cake-mashing wedding ones I'd heard so much about. I tell Daphne I'll pass, having already seen enough photo evidence in the album to damn me for a lifetime, but it isn't the real reason I suddenly feel done.

She must sense it too, because she changes the subject.

"So, Pinocchio." She returns to our original conversation.

I lift my eyes back to her face, waiting. Daphne has been on-and-off with the wooden boy-turned-man from the time she was old enough to date.

"We finally broke it off. For good this time."

"Oh, Daph, I'm sorry."

She shrugs and makes a _meh_ face. "Yeah, it's sad, but I think we were done for a while already. And we're still good friends, so that's something, at least."

"Even then, you were together for -what - eight years? That's gotta be hard to end."

She exhales into a sigh. "We got together at first because we had a connection, ya know? I mean, he really _got_ me."

" _Got_ you?"

"Mmm. Like, this whole thing about being taken seriously. People always saw him as just a wooden boy. And people always saw me as -"

"My younger sister."

She smiles. "See - you get me, too."

"You are my better half," I tell her honestly. "You've always had your head screwed on your shoulders a whole lot tighter than mine. It was hard to say that to your face when we were younger, but I can now."

"It got a lot easier after you moved out," she muses. "Not that I ever hated you or anything, but it was hard to always be in your shadow. You're Sabrina Grimm, the girl who saved the world, the girl who made the Trickster King grow up, the girl who took care of her younger sister and rescued her baby brother when their parents were out cold. And now you're Queen of Faerie and Everafter lawyer extraordinaire and you married the boy of your dreams and everything. I'm just Daphne, the bubbly kid sister, stuck in a tragic love story with a puppet and not quite sure what she wants to do with her life and . . . terrified of losing that beautiful, amazing older sister that she loves so much."

"Oh, Daph." I squeeze her tight, trying to find the words for how amazing _she_ is, what I wouldn't give to be comfortable and competent at magic like she is, how perfect her joyful brilliance is for my angry, sullen seriousness, how she was the only thing that gave me strength and purpose in those dark orphanage years.

But she is speaking again, so I listen.

"After you got your own place, _I_ got to be the oldest. And I realized what a load of responsibility you had to shoulder while we were growing up. And what a hard job it was to keep me - keep us - safe. I get it now. And Pinocchio - he was there when I was trying to figure it all out, ya know? Then we both grew up - me more easily than him, to be honest - and we didn't need each other like that anymore. So I'm moving on. It feels good. Maybe that's why I've liked all those different boys. I think I _am_ looking for something now. And I'll know it when I see it."

I smile at her, something I've been doing a lot more now than when we were younger. I'm so proud of her.

"Well, you're not losing me. I'm not giving up."

Then I laugh, and continue. "But look at us - the sisters Grimm, in love with boys with age complexes - mine didn't want to grow up, and yours did, but couldn't."

Daphne chuckles. "All we need now is Peter Pan to complete the happy threesome."

I shudder. "Don't even suggest it. Puck will blow a gasket."

I tell Daphne about Puck's prank in Disneyworld that had so hilariously backfired, and she bellows in laughter.

When we are calm again, Daphne says, "Birth order - it's a fascinating thing."

"What about it?"

"Well, look at you and Puck - typical Oldest Children, with your traditional, protective, bossy ways. No wonder you were always fighting."

I swat her. "Huh. And what are _your_ lovely flaws?"

"I'm the mediating Middle Child! I just want everyone to be on good terms with everyone else. I don't want a legacy or a kingdom, although I will admit that a little magic is fun to have. And Basil's so much younger that he doesn't count as a Youngest - he's more like an Only. Have you noticed? He's all independent and speaks like a professor and everything."

"A particularly _snarky_ professor," I note pointedly, although I'm processing her observations with some awe. Daphne's always been perceptive but how does she know all this?

She lifts her nose in a superior manner when I ask her.

" _I've_ been reading! I use stuff like this to make sense of you and Puck and Basil all the time. You're all so incredibly textbook."

I stare at her in surprise, and suddenly, something clicks into place as I look at her warm brown eyes and cheerful smile.

"You're Marian!" I almost shout, pointing at her.

Daphne stares back, stunned.

"You're Marian!" I repeat, dumbly. "My therapist! My imaginary therapist, I mean. The one my brain made up. You're her! Or she's you. Whatever."

She pulls back. "That's so creepy."

"Is it? I didn't think so. I remember thinking how much she reminded me of you, and how kind and open she was. And how I didn't want to tell her the truly crazy stuff going on in my life because I didn't think she could take it."

Daphne purses her lips. "Still filtering your information to protect people, huh? Okay - she sounds like me, if only for the bit about filtering info."

But I'm not listening. I'm wondering if any of the other imaginary people in my life are inspired by real ones. Who's Bradley impersonating? Puck? Surely not!

"Earth to Sabrina." Daphne's voice shakes me out of my frantic thoughts.

"I was just thinking of Bradley," I tell her.

"Not still! After you got back with Puck?"

"No, I was just thinking - if Marian's supposed to be you, who's Bradley supposed to be?"

"What's he like?" Daphne pauses. "And, mind you, I'm fully aware of how weird it is that we're talking about your imaginary lover when you're married to a real life hottie."

"Who still smells like rancid meat."

"Beside the point. This Bradley had better be some kind of god."

I am oddly embarrassed to describe Bradley to my sister, as if, because my mind has created him, I am revealing subconscious fantasies in the process.

But Daphne listens quietly, her legs curled under her, her toes wiggling in her stockings.

When I have run out of adjectives, she blinks and says, "He sounds like the good parts of Puck with all the bad parts left out. He doesn't sound like a real person at all. Nobody could be that nice. Especially to you."

My mouth gapes and it takes me a few seconds to realize she's joking. I throw one of the couch pillows at her and she guffaws.

"I got you that time! Oh, you shoulda seen your face, Sabrina!" She collapses in helpless mirth. I want to be mad at her for not taking me seriously but her laughter is so contagious, and so good at a time when my future is so desperately bleak, that I grin, too.

"Seriously, though," I say when the mania has simmered down, "The big thing about him was that he was there for me in all the ways Puck wasn't. Or at least that's how I saw it."

"Like how?"

"Like . . . well . . . like Granny's funeral. Puck wasn't there, but Bradley was. And you told me not to break his heart. Didn't you?"

"What are you talking about? Puck _was_ at the funeral! You were married but the baby hadn't come yet, so you were . . . still yourself, and still together. He said such sweet things about Granny, but in Puck style, you know?"

I stare at her again. Something wasn't adding up.

"When did Granny die?" I finally ask. I don't trust myself to know anything for sure anymore.

"September, six years ago. You were 23 and I was 19."

"And I was married?"

She nods, her brow furrowed.

 _But Granny wasn't at the wedding. Or was she?_

I reach for the album lying on the table and flip it open, scanning the pictures for Granny's face. I didn't see her earlier and I still don't see her. Why hadn't she come to my wedding?

Then I blink, and there she is, seated with Dad and Mom, wearing the hat with the sunflower, watching Puck and me say our vows.

I blink again, and she's gone.

With my stomach roiling, I turn to page after page. Sometimes she's there - standing bent and frail with me in my dressing room, sipping tea at the reception, dancing with Uncle Jake - and sometimes she isn't, fading in and out of existence with a shutter of my eyelids.

And then I see something else that makes me inhale sharply.

"What is it, sis?" Daphne asks, worried at my change of mood.

Bradley.

I see Bradley's face in the crowd, an onlooker. And I see the faces of my Psychology classmates, scattered among the guests. One blink, and they're gone.

The lines are blurring.

Being in Faerie - the seat of Puck's magic - has not slowed down this awful thing that is stealing my soul. I am getting worse.

"Sabrina! What is it?"

"I just wanted to see her face again." Again, I lie to protect my sister.

"I miss her." Daphne sighs, satisfied and unsuspecting.

"I hate being crazy. I can't even remember when things happened and who's real and who's not. And I hate that I have to depend on you guys to tell me."

She puts her hand on my arm.

"We'll find a way to cure this. If only Baba Yaga were still here. We could resurrect the coven!"

"Why? What happened to her? Did she die, too?"

"No - oh, you won't remember because it happened when you were off the grid. She left. According to her, with the barrier down and all the Everafters coming and going, Ferryport Landing was like a refugee town. She said she needed a quiet place to retire. Last we heard, she was in the mountains somewhere."

"You couldn't be a coven anyway," I reason. "Who'd be in it? Bunny traded in her magic with her eyes, remember?"

"We could ask Gossamer."

"Gossamer's Fae! She's not a witch!"

"But she has powers." Daphne pouts stubbornly, and just like that, we are eleven and seven again, clutching at straws in the face of insurmountable obstacles.

"I think," I begin again, "that I wouldn't mind dying as long as I knew for sure that I wouldn't be losing any more of my real memories. I think it would be horrible if I died believing all the wrong things about you, or Mom or Dad, or Basil, or Puck."

Daphne's eyes suddenly swim with tears. "Don't say that."

"I wish I could talk to somebody who's been through this. Or who knows what it's like to live with this kind of madness and not give in."

My sister's eyes suddenly light up, just as a person pops into my mind. We both say her name at the same time.

"Red!"

"She's in town!" Daphne scrubs the tears from her face and pulls out her phone. "What are the chances? I'll text her right now!"

And within minutes, we've set up a meeting with one of our favorite people and dearest friends. Why exactly she's in NYC now Daphne refuses to say. Instead, she smiles smugly and says she'll let Red tell me herself. Then she exclaims at a message on her phone and announces that she should squeeze in a call before dinner.

"You'll be okay?" She asks, concerned. "Think you can find your way to the dining room?"

"I live here! And, supposedly, I'm the Queen; I should have servants to _carry_ me to the dining room if I so desire."

She laughs. "Puck's rubbed off on you, Your Uppity Highness."

"Daph," I stop her. "What kind of queen was I? Was I half-decent, at least? And be honest."

She is quiet for a while, collecting her thoughts, and I brace myself for the worst.

"Actually . . . you're a really good queen," she says at last. "You're just not, you know, a _regular_ queen."

"What's that mean?"

"Like . . . you didn't look like a queen . . . I mean, you always wore jeans and T-shirts, even here in Faerie with Puck. Not that he dressed any more kingly - hoodies and maybe the occasional shirt. Mind you, that suit he wore at the wedding? That was the one time I ever saw him dressed up. Ever! But back to you. You didn't run Faerie the way Titania did - I mean Puck runs it, mostly. But you did wonderful things for the people - got them jobs and fought for their rights and lobbied for laws that actually made sense; practical things. Like what Mom started, remember? Except in a bigger way . . . a much, much bigger way, because you're Queen, and you had all that clout and all. The people really liked you. Puck, too."

"You're not just saying that because I'm dying, are you?"

She grins. "You'll never know, will you?"

I watch her stride across the library towards the door. I have so many more questions, about so many things that I don't know that I don't know. But one - the most important - rises to the top of the list and lands on the tip of my tongue.

"What about Puck? Were we . . . was I . . . were we happy together?"

And Daphne turns back to me with a huge smile, her eyes saying what her words don't need to: _I told you so._

* * *

 **A/N: A little wedding backstory, because I'd always wondered what that would've been like for P+S.**

 **And some sister love, because S and D are just awesome together, and I wanted to explore that living in-the-older-sibling's-shadow-dynamic a little, particularly how D came into her own as she got older and more independent.**

 **I hope you liked it!**


	26. Chapter 25

Puck joins us for dinner, still dressed in his guerrilla suit and smelling only marginally better than he had in the gardens. I count myself fortunate that custom has us sitting at opposite ends of the long dinner table, and I feel genuine pity for Dad and Basil, who are on either side - and not exactly upwind - of him.

But the food! I can't get enough of the food in Faerie -it's as if Puck has employed some of the best chefs in the city to work in our kitchens. We eat, and while it's not quite a celebration, there is genuine laughter at the table, thanks to the banter between Basil and Puck, and it is the safest and happiest I've felt in a long time.

Then, dinner is cleared away and the chairs are pushed back, after which Puck announces that we must abandon everyone to spend some quality time together as King and Queen and discuss the economical future of Faerie.

Basil rolls his eyes. "All you had to do was say, 'Get lost; I want Sabrina for myself now.' We're not stupid, you know."

"Okay then: get lost; I want Sabrina for myself now," Puck repeats, grinning.

"As long as you take a very long antiseptic bath first," I tell him.

He raises one eyebrow suggestively. "Wanna give me one?"

"Stop!" Basil shouts. "Go away already!"

But the corners of his mouth are turned up as he catches my eye and waves us off. And, amidst a quiet flurry of goodnights, we leave, walking down the hallways to our rooms. I keep a safe distance from Puck because he truly reeks, but my heart quickens at the thought of being alone with him again. Apart from those brief minutes earlier in the gardens, I haven't seen him all day, and we haven't had a minute to ourselves since I passed out in my apartment some days ago. We reach the door to our rooms and Puck flings it open.

I take it all in - the furnishings, the colors, the textures, the pictures, the personal artifacts which are evidence that this has been mine, has been home, is where we've spent our most private and intimate moments together.

Nothing is familiar.

I wander through the interconnected rooms and touch the framed photographs, the well-used coffee maker on the sideboard (I surmise that we must have enjoyed a break from being waited on by the kitchen staff from time to time), the soaps and lotions in the luxurious bathroom, the clothes hanging in the walk-in wardrobe.

"Don't hope to find anything more than jeans and battle gear in there." Puck's voice sounds from behind me and I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching me. He holds out a mug of coffee and raises one eyebrow in invitation.

I sip it, and taste caramel. The man knows how to make a good cup of coffee.

Oddly, that thought makes my stomach flutter.

"All the fancy dresses," he continues, waving his hand in the general direction of the main door, "the ones you - and I quote you: 'are forced to wear to meet the self-important idiots who would shoot us in the back if it weren't to their political advantage not to' - are in the store room. You refused to have them in here with your _real_ clothes."

"Mph," I agree.

"I always thought it was a shame, though." He is still watching me. "Because you can really rock a dress." His mouth curves into a lazy smile. "And you know it."

The space between us is electric. I don't break his gaze.

His smile widens, and he arrests me with it.

Then he turns his head abruptly and sniffs his arm. "Hmm. I do remind myself of the back end of a vegan troll. I guess I need that bath after all."

Then he saunters past me to the bathroom.

And I can breathe again, although it isn't because the smell is gone.

I discover almost immediately after that it is increasingly weird to see my life, which of course I remember nothing of, described in the retail choices I have made, particularly in the area of sleepwear. I suppose that, being married, I have good reason for some of the . . . somewhat scandalous pieces I find in the lingerie drawers, but my eyes widen in surprise anyway. I finally find a short nightdress that's a little more substantial than the rest to change into and am just done brushing my hair out when Puck exits the bathroom in nothing but boxers and walks over to the bed.

For a moment we stare at each other, newly awkward in a situation that has apparently never been so for us. It isn't as if we haven't shared a bed since I'd found out we were married. It's only that we are here in our bedroom - _home ground_ \- that makes my hair stand on end.

"I'm wearing a dress," I say stupidly.

"So I noticed."

Then, as if by silent agreement, we both pull the covers off our sides of the bed and climb in, not touching.

Then Puck clears his throat. "Uh, wrong side."

"Ah, oh," I say, turning red for no logical reason whatsoever.

We clamber out, switch sides, and clumsily repeat the Bed Entry Maneuver.

And sit there for exactly two seconds before Puck laughs. It is a wonderful laugh, as if someone has told a truly clever joke and the world explodes in gleeful, unselfconscious response. In that moment, I realize how much I love his laugh, how rich and full of joy it is, how my own lips cannot resist turning up in response to it. This must be what we are like together, I think: not always longing and pining; there is also mirth and affection and warmth and silliness. It strikes me as a very good recipe.

He throws himself backwards onto his pillow, and tucks his hands behind his head.

"C'mere, you."

And I do. I fall back myself, and lay my head on one of his bent arms, lolling slightly as his bicep shifts. He turns and kisses my temple.

"Welcome home," he says, his voice still full of the laughter that had warmed the room moments before.

And we don't speak; we just lie there, watching the light from the bedside lamps pool on the ceiling.

I break the silence. "So, this is home, huh?"

"One of them, anyway."

"We've lived somewhere else?"

"We had an apartment in the East Village. You always loved the Village, and SoHo, and you thought living there would keep you close to all those artists. So many of them are Everafters - and all of them potential clients, you used to say."

" _Had_ an apartment?"

"Let it go after you left. At first I thought you might come back, so I only rented it out. But you didn't, so I sold it."

The thought saddens me - that somewhere there is a piece of my past that I cannot revisit. Maybe one day I'll go check it out, ask the current occupants if I could step in and look around. I file that idea away for another time, and change the subject. This one has become too painful.

"Well, are you going to tell me which puddle of horse dung you rolled in today to smell like that?"

"You first. What kind of trouble did the Grimm family get into while I was rolling in horse dung?"

"I hung out with Daphne. We looked at wedding photos."

"Ah. And?"

"It was a nice party."

"Yes. But no one died. No catastrophic natural disaster happened. Quite boring, actually."

"I thought you getting all dressed up and professing your love for some girl in front of everybody counted as a catastrophic natural disaster."

"What? And get to watch her father squirm at the thought of all the things I'd be doing with her later? No way! It was awesome!"

"Dad didn't squirm!"

"Fine, he didn't. But only because he was actually secretly relieved to be getting rid of you, Stinky. Didn't you see him bribing the priestess to Finish The Ceremony, No Matter What? He said, "Don't let him back out' and 'Make sure he says 'I Do' '. And he wasn't even subtle. He said it _loudly_. I heard! And so did everyone else."

"Idiot. He'd never do that. And don't take advantage of my memory loss to make up lies. That's just mean."

Puck snickers. "Whatever. But he did threaten me. Said if I hurt you or broke your heart, I'd have to deal with him. Didn't seem to get that he was trying to talk down the _King of Faerie_ and that I had _armies_ at my disposal that I could've set on him if I'd wanted."

"But you didn't."

"No. Because he was right; sort of. I told him if I hurt you or broke your heart, _I'd_ deal with me myself before he'd have a chance to."

I prop myself up on my elbow and look at him in surprise.

"You told him that?"

"Yep." He lowers his hands and clasps them over his belly.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing at first; just stared, and then he shook my hand and said, "Alright then. Proceed."

"So you didn't challenge him to a duel?"

"That _was_ the duel. We both won. Lame, right?"

 _Men_. I roll my eyes.

"And I meant it," Puck continues softly after a pause, "every single vow. Whether or not you remember it."

"Because fairies take their vows very seriously, unlike humans."

"Because I love you, even if I _were_ human."

Something in my heart gives way and I take his hand and hold it under the covers. We lie quietly for a while.

"For someone who claims to be allergic to feelings, you're not bad at showing them," I say at last.

He snorts softly. "And it's totally your fault. I was doing fine for four thousand years before you came along. Unbelievable - completely ruined by one human girl. Mind you, at this rate, when I finally die, my tombstone is going to read, "Here lies Puck, the Trickster King - for a girl, left everything. Grew a beard and lost his teeth, a useless sap lies underneath."

"That's a horrible epitaph! It's not even a real poem!"

"Sure it is. It rhymes, doesn't it?"

I shake my head as we lie silent once more. I wrestle with a train of thought that's been on my mind for a while.

"Puck," I say into the gap.

"Hmm?" His thumb slides over my fingers.

"If . . . when . . . if I die . . . for good . . ."

"Sabrina."

"No, let me finish." I grip his hand. "If I don't come back . . . oh, this is so stupid. It's worse than some cheesy movie."

"Yes, it is, so stop right there and let's just make out now."

"No, I have to say it. Look - if I'm really gone, you mustn't sit around and give up, okay? In fact, I _forbid_ you to sit around and give up. You have to find someone else. You must. And I won't mind. I'd actually be happy if I knew you were moving on. Obviously if you went out right after the funeral and married the next person you saw, I might send you both a plague from beyond the grave. But you know what I mean. Remember when we were kids and you were this obnoxious, smelly, immature freak baby? Even then, you weren't completely terrible at loving people. True, you had some funny ways of showing it, but still. And now . . . I mean, look at you! You stuck by me when I was . . . okay, still _am_ . . . crazy, and even after I hurt you and left you, you still stayed. If that's not love, I don't know what is. Someone real lucky is going to have you if I don't come back. And you deserve it."

There is silence, and then his voice comes out of the darkness, very quiet and small.

"But I don't want anyone but you. I've never loved anyone before you and I didn't even believe this - you, _us_ \- could happen, but it did and I'll never, ever love anyone after you."

He stops, and then picks up again, sounding more like himself this time, "So no, sorry. Thank you for your magnanimous offer to organize a post-death affair for me, but I must decline."

"But Puck," I protest, and he cuts me off.

"No, Sabrina. Some day either you or I or both of us might get murdered, and that's the only way we'll die, but it's not for a long, long while, and maybe, just maybe we'll be sick enough of each other by then to want to even think of finding someone else, but right now? Not a chance. End of discussion."

"Murdered? That's how you want to die?"

"What? I'm King. Kings get assassinated all the time," he scoffs, then adds, pointedly, "queens, too."

"You've _thought_ about how you're going to die?"

"Haven't you? You're a Grimm, for goodness' sake, and Grimms are death magnets. Did you forget? You practically _collect_ enemies. I've lost count of how many you have."

"Well, no, I haven't actually thought about how I might die. I guess being assassinated makes sense. But that's pathetic."

"See, that's what I thought. I much prefer something with a little more pizzazz."

"Of course you do. So, like _slow and dramatically painful_ pizzazz? Or _for-everyone-to-see_ pizzazz?"

"Oh, _for-everyone-to-see_ , definitely. Flying into the heart of a meteor that's speeding to the earth, and saving the universe, for instance. Yeah, that's pretty cool."

"Uh, not sure anyone'd be able to see you way out in space, bud. How about something less grandiose . . . I know - fighting a dragon and getting incinerated in a blaze of glory!"

"Don't insult me! Getting burnt while dragon-fighting isn't glorious; it's a loser move. Besides, dragons are a piece of cake. Anyone can fight dragons!"

Suddenly, we are both silent, and I can tell by the way Puck chews on his lip that he is remembering Briar, just as I am. And what Uncle Jake was like in the months and years after.

"So," I say, trying to draw him away from dark places, "not dragons, then. But dying in battle is good, right? Honor and glory and all that?"

"Yeah," Puck rumbles, slowly warming up again. "But only if your opponent is particularly badass. Otherwise it's humiliating and you'd probably get to be like the janitor in the afterlife. Same goes for being run over by a rhino, or being poisoned, or choking to death on a bagel, or a heart attack from your own ugly reflection." He nudges me and chuckles.

"Or being hugged to death." I shove him back. "Like Mirror."

"Okay," he says, propping himself up on his side, "Look, I know Mirror is a sensitive topic for you, but am I the only one who thought hugging him to death was beyond dumb? I mean, who dies from a hug?" He begins to snicker.

"Oh, I dunno - boa constrictor victims?"

"No! I mean a love hug!" He is giggling uncontrollably now.

"Shut up, Puck. I didn't know it was going to kill him, okay? I just had to get the magic out of me. And, besides, I thought I was hugging Granny!"

"Riiiiight." He sighs. "Except it didn't get all the magic out, did it? I think that's the worst - a lame way to die _and_ a lame way to kill someone. Everyone loses."

"I'll tell you what's a terrible way to die," I say quietly, suddenly feeling somber.

"What?"

"Dying while believing all the wrong things about the people you love."

He doesn't respond, only tilts his head slightly, waiting for me to say more.

"Imagine if we'd never gone on this trip, if I was still living that crazy life with my pretend friends and my fake therapist-"

"-and that loser Bradson."

"Bradley. And he wasn't a loser. He . . . no, I'm not going to have this conversation about him with you. But yes, if I'd never done this, I might still be believing you walked out on me and I'd _still_ be dying and then I'd die and never know you were actually -"

"This awesome and amazing?"

"Those were not the words I was thinking of, but yeah."

"Well, I'll tell you what _I_ think is a terrible way to die."

"What?"

"Getting my wings ripped off and finding out the girl I liked was being poisoned to death by the psycho other girl I was forced-engaged to. Another total lose-lose."

I laugh.

"One, you were nowhere near dying by the time Moth pulled her crazy stunt. And two, that was when I first realized what you meant to me, okay? Not only because I thought you might die, but that even after you were healed, you might be staying on in Faerie for good. And I couldn't bear the thought of not keeping you."

While we've been talking, we've scooted closer together, and now my palm is resting on his chest, and his fingers are playing with my hair, his foot gently rubbing the side of my calf.

"So now," he murmurs, his voice molten in the stillness of the room, "you understand why it's not acceptable for you to die on me anytime soon. Or ever. And I'm not resting until I find a way to stop it."

"But -" I say, all prepared to recount the technicalities of my condition, when his finger on my lips silences me.

"Unless you've changed your mind about me?" His question is not coy or needy; it is serious, challenging.

"No." I breathe in and say the words that I've kept from him for too long. "I love you. Even when I wasn't supposed to, I've loved you. And I plan on loving you for a long, long time."

"Good enough," he whispers, and lowers his lips to mine.

 _This is it_ , I realize. I am no longer unsure, no longer divided, the phantoms in my mind safely anchored where they merely cast a dim shadow over the place where they once lived.

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer, my heart suddenly racing. His hands and mouth are gentle on my face and my body, but they move as if they are familiar with me and have, in some distant past, traveled every inch of me as confidently as they are skillful. We are no longer talking, but there are smiles and murmurs and gasps and sighs as we move together. With infinite patience, he takes me over the brink and in the aftermath, I feel like I am finally whole.

* * *

 **A/N: Another of my fave chapters to write - anytime these two have a conversation = fun to write, because they're completely loopy. I mean, who can banter about death without it being all maudlin? Only these two!**


	27. Chapter 26

**A/N: I'm still alive! Fear not, friends - I've just been busy the past couple of days, and haven't had the time to edit my chapter du jour. Thank you (to those who did) for checking in on me to see if I was okay.**

 **Quick poll: it has come to my attention that perhaps, I might possibly be posting my chapters a tad _too_ often. I personally like reading stories without having to wait to find out what happens next, and I thought you might, too. But maybe not . . ? So I thought I'd poll you guys (since you're the ones on the receiving end of my barrage of frequent updates): would you prefer me to update _less frequently_? Or just stay with the current one-chapter-a-day-unless-there-are-unforeseen-circumstances-to-prevent-it modus operandus? **

**Here is the chapter you've been waiting for, anyway: honeymoon fluff gives way to something darker. Enjoy.**

* * *

The first thing I do when I wake up the next morning is to interrogate my brain.

Name? Check.

Age? Check.

Family members' names? Check.

Familiar surroundings? Check.

What happened yesterday? Check (note to self: this memory could've already been tampered with; double-check with Daphne later).

Marital status? Check.

Still don't hate Puck? Check.

I smile at that last one as I reach over to Puck's side of the bed.

The sheets are cool.

I slide out from under the covers, and the hem of my nightdress falls to my thighs as I stand, their seams inside out - undressing under the covers is always so much easier than putting everything back on the right way again. I look for a note, remembering the ones Puck had left in the various hotels and motels we'd stayed in on our hunt for the elixir, but there is none. I shower, get dressed and savor the odd feeling of waking in a place that is both home and not.

When I leave the rooms by the main door, a servant meets me, bowing.

"My Lady," he says, "His Majesty wishes you a good morning and trusts that you had a comfortable night. He also regrets that he had to leave your company before you woke as he needed to attend a very important meeting. He hopes you will enjoy your day with your family, and he will see you at the soonest opportunity."

I gape at him.

"Puck er . . . His Majesty really said all that?"

The servant fights back a smile and looks slightly uncomfortable, but before he can answer, Mustardseed appears around the corner and calls out, "Actually, he gave orders to make sure you don't keel over, and to watch you for signs of deepening lunacy."

I sigh. "And here I thought he was improving."

Mustardseed looks apologetic. "This is when he's in a good mood, which he is in a lot now that you're back. Before, he was quite unmanageable, if you can imagine that." He turns to thank the servant, who scoots away, and then offers his arm, clarifying, "Not that I am implying you are unable to walk without keeling over."

"I can recognize a gentlemanly gesture," I assure him. "Thanks."

"We need to make a stop before breakfast," he informs me as we make our way down the corridor. "Gossamer wants to check on you first thing this morning before declaring you safe to wander around by yourself. She asked me to escort you there once you'd left your rooms, just in case."

I nod, and we arrive at the healing rooms where Gossamer is waiting. Mustardseed leaves me and Gossamer goes right to business, examining and probing and questioning me in her soft, lilting voice.

"I'm fine," I tell her uselessly, as she frowns and purses her lips.

"Are you noticing anything . . . new?" She asks at last.

I hesitate, not wanting to make a big deal of what's inevitable. It is enough to elicit a sigh from the Fae healer.

"I feared so," she says sadly. "It's getting worse, isn't it? I cannot stop what's happening, Sabrina. But there's really no need for you to be stuck in bed as long as you're able to get around without blacking out. That would be a pointless precaution when you could be out enjoying the world."

 _In the limited time I have before I die_ , I finish her unspoken words.

"It seems," she continues, matter-of-fact, "that our priority now must be to find this elixir and ensure we have it on hand when . . . the inexorable happens."

 _If only it were that simple_ , I muse. I still find it hard to believe that in the entire magic cosmos, there is only one wretched cure for my ludicrous condition, and there is so little of it that it is being saved - and rightly so - to protect the world from a megalomaniac so evil he makes the despots from our world look like preschool teachers.

 _Surely_ other options exist?

"However, " Gossamer interrupts my thoughts, "It's probably best not to alarm your family, or His Majesty. They will want you to stay indoors and resting, and it will drive you insane. They mean well, of course, but they . . . "

The door is suddenly flung upon without so much as a knock.

Puck strides in, hair tousled, his combat boots thumping on the carpet. I take one look at him and, unfortunately, the first thing that comes to mind is what he'd felt like in my arms the night before. I fight down the heat in my belly.

"There you are!" He exclaims. "We're waiting for you in the dining hall! And I have to get to my meeting! Aren't you ever coming?"

Gossamer's brow furrows as she faces off with Puck. In no uncertain terms, she tells him that we are not done and that he needs to leave.

Puck stands with his hands on his hips and glares down at her, pulling rank and threatening to have her beheaded.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Gossamer shoots back in her quiet voice, not batting an eyelid. "You may be the King but I am the Queen's healer - and yours. In these rooms, your wife's health is my responsibility and, as we both want her well, my authority trumps yours."

Puck scowls but his eyes soften slightly as they flick to mine. "Fine. Be that way. But try to be quick about it. We're going to start without you, Grimm."

We both watch him stalk out. He doesn't even slam the door.

"Was that really necessary?" I ask, grinning slightly, when we are again alone.

Gossamer inclines her head to me, "Nobody interrupts a lady before she's ready to face the world. Least of all the Queen."

"When I was Queen, Gossamer. . . before all this happened . . . did I. . . did I do okay?" I've already asked Daphne this but I want to know how the Fae themselves saw me, if they accepted me in spite of not being one of them.

Gossamer smiles without hesitation. "Oh, yes. Because you did what you were good at - mediating and fighting. Fighting both for the rights of the marginalized and working with the guards on hand-to-hand combat and stealth and other things like that. Our warriors are good with their weapons but because they can fly, they don't bother much with close-range techniques. You decided that was a weakness that the enemy could exploit, and insisted on including that in their training. His Majesty didn't quite like you being in such close proximity with his guards, of course. But you told him off for being jealous and that if he wanted a private session with you, all he had to do was ask and you'd trounce him anytime he liked."

"I said that? In front of his men?"

"Heavens, no! You weren't that tactless. You were in here being treated for . . . a split knee, I think it was, and he barged in like he just did, and threw his fit. But then when you challenged him, he ordered _me_ to leave. Practically pushed me out, actually. And locked the door."

"Oh, my."

"I don't think hand-to-hand combat was the only thing you both did behind closed doors that evening, though." She laughs, giving me a sly look.

"Well, that was unsubtle. Please say we weren't like that in public."

She laughs merrily. "You were great together. Still are, in spite of the bickering. No doubt after all those years of pranks, that energy had to be channeled somewhere, I suppose. You know what they say: there's growing up and then there's _growing up_."

I absorb everything, feeling both deliciously warm to my toes and strangely detached, as if I am hearing yet another anecdote about a couple I don't know.

Then Gossamer is ushering me out, toward breakfast. "I think I'll still have you check in with me each morning, but there's no need to stay confined from now on. Keep someone with you at all times, in case you have an incident," she says as I leave her. "Call for me if you need anything."

* * *

At breakfast, Daphne has questions all over her face, which I pointedly ignore. Everyone is there, including Puck and Mustardseed, who are talking with their heads together. Puck looks up when I enter, and shouts, "At last! Why is it that females take so long to do stuff?" at which Daphne swats him and Mom launches into a defense on gender and stereotypes.

But over their heads, he locks his gaze on mine and gives me a lopsided grin, his eyes soft.

Then the conversation shifts. Mom wants to know if I remember my rooms and Dad announces that he's meeting Pinocchio to go over new plans for the boys' mentoring program they've founded.

I sneak a peek at Daphne when Dad mentions Pinocchio. The tips of her ears go slightly pink and she gums her lips together but doesn't say anything. I wonder if I should suggest she spend some time with Mustardseed just to take her mind off Pinocchio, but immediately chastise myself for the thought. Mustardseed is a good catch, and he and Daphne have great chemistry, but he isn't Pinocchio, and Daphne needs time to stop wanting him before she's ready to want anyone else.

She turns to me, any earlier wistfulness gone from her smiling face. "We're meeting Red in Central Park," she tells me. "But let's go a little earlier and just walk, shall we? I haven't been there in ages and it's so exciting, all those artists and the horse carriages and the statues and the baseball fields and ponds with the sailing boats you can rent, and oh, the dogs! How I love the dogs! Oh, uh, only if you're feeling okay. Are you still tired?"

I smile and shake my head and tell her I'm feeling great, and we should totally go.

So we head out after breakfast, and walk the Park as if we are tourists. Daphne is excited about everything and I let her enthusiasm wash over me and energize me. The truth is I am not feeling that well and the further we go from Faerie, the more woozy my head is. But I don't mention this; I know what is happening and that there is nothing I can do to stop it. I only pray I don't die out here in public and have Puck and everyone else in Faerie turn up to make a fuss - it would be a nightmare that no amount of forgetful dust could wish away.

I refuse to let Daphne buy food from the the cart vendors.

"This is Manhattan, Daph! Let's go to one of those fun little eateries and people-watch, if you're hungry." And she concedes, so we hop on a bus and get off to walk the remaining distance to one of my favorite cafes.

On the way there, we pass the building that Bradley was supposed to have lived in.

I peek in through the glass doors.

Sandy-haired Ed is there - the non-existent security guard from my make-believe universe.

I swallow. If I walk through those doors, Ed will wave me to the elevator, which I'd ride to 22B.

And because it is Sunday, the day we used to stay in, Bradley will be home.

And I will see him again.

While scaring my sister half to death with the imminent blackout that will fuel this latest hallucination, sprawled on the pavement in the real world.

I turn away and keep walking, choosing by not choosing, and Daphne has no idea.

* * *

After lunch, we head back to the Park where we're supposed to meet Red.

"How does this elixir work, Daph?" I ask her, out of the blue. "I mean, you can't drink it when you're dead, can you?"

"Bunny wasn't very clear, but she made it sound like it wasn't a liquid, more like an ether, or an essence. It doesn't get drunk because, duh, dead people can't drink. I think it just floats out of the container and surrounds the dead person. And maybe restores the body, I guess. Sounds hokey, I know."

Daphne does not stare at me in wonder at bringing this up out of context. She simply answers, as if I'd just asked her about the weather. I suspect that my condition is already on everyone's mind, anyway; there is no need for a lead up.

"Haven't you seen it?" She asks. "Didn't that Goblin Prince show it to you?"

"No. Never saw it. That's why I'm not even sure it's real."

"Oh, it's real, alright. I can tell."

"How?"

"Just magic. You know things, feel things. I can tell if they're real or they're fake."

"Like my memories? You could tell Bradley and Marian weren't real?"

"Well, sorta. But you blocked them really well with your own magic, the magic that's inside you, I mean. So it was hard at first."

"At first?"

"Yeah, Later, when you were with Puck, I could sense something . . . like I was able to break through, you know? It was like Puck's magic . . . neutralized it."

"Well, then, why can't we get Puck to cure me?"

"Because his magic is _in_ him. He can't exude it to other people. The one time he did . . ."

 _I lost the baby we made_.

I hate the mechanics of magic. It never seems to work the way you want.

We see a baseball field, empty except for a small boy and his dad playing catch.

I do a double take. This was the baseball field in my dream, the one beside which Bradley asked me to move in with him. Automatically, I whip my head around to look for that bench where we'd sat, where he'd laid down all his cards and I didn't say yes.

There it is, across the field, outside the first base line. Someone is sitting on it, one arm stretched across the back of the bench, watching the boy and his dad on the mound. He has dark hair and a goatee. I blink, and he is still there.

My blood runs cold. My world is unraveling.

 _He is not real. He is not real_.

I repeat it over and over again as I avert my eyes and walk faster, trying to escape, trying to leave my madness behind me where it belongs.

Daphne must notice this time, because I am hurrying, my lips set in grim line. When she asks, I lie to protect her from the truth, as I've always done. _I'm a little tired and want to get to the meeting place so I can sit in the shade_ , I say, even as my mind spins out of control, real and unreal bleeding seamlessly into each other as I fight to keep them apart.

* * *

We find Red seated on a picnic blanket on the grass. She looks serene and beautiful, her eyes closed as if she is meditating.

Daphne dives next to her, jolting Red's eyes open. Red smiles and Daphne squeals and they embrace. Red lifts her eyes to me and unwraps one arm to include me in the hug. It is wonderfully awkward and we almost topple, laughing. It is good to see her again.

She lets me break the ice and ask her what's new with her. She smiles, wide and slow. Her life is good, she says. She's still teaching yoga at the institute. She sees Tobias - we use his real name now - every week. He has turned down her invitation -again -to move into her guest room; he says she needs her own life and he's perfectly happy living alone. She knows he's right, but he's not getting any younger and she worries about him.

I ask her what has brought her to Manhattan and she tells us she has a job interview.

Daphne coughs and looks sly, and I suspect there's more that Red's not telling.

Red blushes and Daphne, impatient and excited, blurts out something about a guy.

I prompt: what guy?

Red calmly ignores Daphne's effusive hand gestures and announces that possibly, she might have met someone.

We both exclaim - Daphne in triumph and I in glad surprise. Red has been rebuilding her world since she got her life back from the insanity that plagued her as a kid. Most of her teenage years were spent in therapy and we'd cheered as we'd watched her grow from a haunted child into a young adult slowly discovering her strength and independence. It had taken her a long time to fully open up to us and even longer to make friends outside our family. This is the first guy I've heard her mention, and from the warmth in her voice and the light that fills her eyes, he must be the first she's given her heart to.

I want to know everything about him, if he is absolutely good to her or if I should pay him a visit and threaten the wrath of the Queen of Faerie if he hurts my friend. But she laughs and promises: later; she wants to hear about me first, about what Daphne told her on the phone, about my madness.

So I tell her, and it sounds like a recording of a speech, my thoughts uncannily organized from repeating this so many times in the past week. But this time, the ending is different, because for once I don't wrap it up with how well I'm dealing with having one foot in reality and the other pulling away in dreams and nightmares; I say instead that I feel unstable and untrustworthy, that I don't know how to tell if I'll ever make any headway, if my new normal is waking up every day and believing that my world is only what everyone else tells me it is.

"Because there are so many layers and each time you peel one back, there's another one and you're never sure any of it is true." She finishes quietly, watching my face crumple as she hits home.

"Yes," I whisper, and I cannot say anything else for a while.

Her arms reach around me and hold me again and I wipe my face savagely, feeling the familiar anger and helplessness sweep over me.

"Is this what insanity feels like?" I finally speak. It is a rhetorical question, aimed at the Fates for their cruel jokes on those of us who have been their playthings. "You know, I almost feel sorry for Moth for turning psycho on Oberon -" I hold up a finger, -almost."

But Red answers, "I don't know if Moth ever really loved Puck. They were never anything, but there was always talk that they would be betrothed at some point. Maybe Puck never took it seriously - you know what Puck's like - but clearly Moth did, and she set her heart on it, and then everything was taken away from her."

She holds up a hand when she sees me about to protest, but Daphne interjects, "She's not saying it's your fault, Sabrina. You didn't force Puck to want you and not want her. Maybe he really did break her heart. Or maybe she was just mad because she lost a dream and a potential mate. We'll never know."

It's funny how Moth and I have that in common. I begin to understand her a little more as I think about how she must have felt to watch Puck walk away from her.

"She never even had the chance to call him hers before she lost him anyway," I say, surprising myself with the sympathy I feel for her. "How hard it must be to mourn for something that was never yours."

"Ah, the Mistress Syndrome." Daphne nods sagely. "You know, when the husband you're having an affair with dies. It's still your loss, but you're not allowed to grieve because you have no right to; only the wife does."

Red and I turn to her, flabbergasted.

"Not the same!" Red exclaims as I simultaneously protest, "That's _my_ husband we're talking about."

Daphne raises her palms in defence. "It's only the _principle_!"

Red shakes her head. "Aaaaanyway, rejection like that can drive someone insane, not that it gives her any excuse to kill people. But that's not the same kind of . . . mental instability you've got."

"Oh, call it lunacy if you like," I cut in, feeling generous now that we're back on track. "Puck does."

She waves her hand, refusing to be flippant along with me. "Your reality was stolen from you and replaced by an alternative that is real to you in every way," she dissects me. "It's not triggered by unrequited love, or abuse or something traumatic that happened to you. It's something that lives in you and takes your place and turns you into someone else. And there's no logical reason for it, nothing you can trace back to your past that you can maybe work through. And just because it's caused by magic doesn't make it any less frightening to deal with. That's your kind of madness, Sabrina. It doesn't make you do anything; it just _is_. And you both are and are _not_ , because of it."

Her voice has been building in intensity as speaks, and as I listen to her, I wonder whose story she's really telling -mine, or her own. When her speech ends, everyone is silent.

"If I die," I begin, "that's great, because then I think the madness might go away. But until that happens, I have to live with it. Right?"

"You choose," Red says slowly. "Easier said than done, I know. My world isn't sane. Some part of me still feels as if it's perfectly okay to attack people who don't let me get my way. And I still imagine that family in my head - the one I tried to create with your brother to replace my real one that I'd lost. I'm better now because at least now I know that wasn't real. And every day I choose to live in _this_ world, and not in the old one. Sometimes I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, and it's all I can do to hope that I'm not making a mistake by picking the one I picked. But do you know what helps, Sabrina?"

"What?" The word hangs between us like a prayer.

"I chose the ones I love, the ones who love me back. And I figure that even if that's not real, at least it's _good_."

I exhale and squeeze my eyes shut. _What if loving a figment of my imagination makes him_ feel _so real that I cannot tell them apart from the ones who_ are _real? And what if I must choose between them because I can't have both?_

As if by mutual consent, we fall silent. Daphne, who uncharacteristically has spoken very little, rubs my back and I lean in to her, grateful she is here with me. Talking with Red hasn't actually solved anything; my mind is still dark corners and cold spaces, but I have let a friend see them and now it is less lonely in the shadows.

I feel done, and in dire need of something more pleasant to dwell on, so I turn to Red and ask her again about this guy she's met.

She stumbles over her words, shy; unable to explain who he is.

Daphne rescues her.

"Actually, you might even have seen him, sis! No . . . you won't remember."

"Why wouldn't I? I remember Red, right? Wait . . . how long ago was this?"

Red says, with some relief, "Daphne means because he works in Faerie."

"Not _Mustardseed_?"

Both girls laugh.

Red offers, "No! He's just a soldier in Puck's army."

"Not _just_ a soldier!" Daphne clarifies, indignant. " _Captain_!"

I'm getting impatient. "Tell it properly, you guys!"

Red's smile is radiant as she takes over. "He's one of Puck's captains. We met at a function in Faerie - one of those dinner things that you guys were always throwing for charity."

"Was I there?"

"The host usually is," Daphne tries in vain not to sound like she's explaining this to a child. "Oh, but . . . yeah, you - "

"-can't remember," I finish tiredly.

Red looks sympathetic as she continues, "Anyway, he was standing in for someone on guard duty that night -"

"And Red danced with him!" Daphne squeals, sounding for all the world like a kid.

" _While_ he was on duty?" I muse. He must enjoy breaking the rules.

"No! When he was done with his shift. He was watching me the whole time, he said, and came over to dance with me. And after, he walked me to the train station. I didn't want to read too much into it, but then _he_ called, and then _I_ called, and then we went out on a couple of dates. But it was hard, because he's in Faerie and I'm in Chicago."

Daphne grabs her arm. "So she's interviewing for this job - it's a new yoga institute-"

"Wellness center," Red corrects her, smiling.

"- on the East Side, Sabrina - so she can be near him! Oh Red, I hope you get it! Does he know?"

Red shakes her head. "He must be away on some mission - the soldiers often do, and stay out for weeks sometimes. Which isn't unusual, but it's been almost two months, so I thought I'd visit Faerie and see if he was here. Or, if not, maybe Puck knows when he'll be home."

Daphne sighs, "They're so sweet together, sis. You should see them."

I grin at them both, thrilled for Red. "What's his name, by the way? I don't think you ever said."

"Didn't I? It's Oriel."

My blood turns to ice and I feel my grin freeze on my face.

 _No._

 _It can't be._

 _It's just_ _a coincidence._

"Is uh . . . Oriel a common Fae name?"

Daphne snorts. "You're asking us? You're their Queen!"

I ignore her. "Red . . . is it?"

Red shrugs. "It isn't. He was named after his grandfather, he said. Why?"

"And I remember Mustardseed saying once that Fae names are one-per-generation. Can you imagine _more_ than one Mustardseed?" Daphne chuckles.

 _Please, no._

"What does he look like?" I try to sound more giddy girlfriend than police sergeant, but my stomach feels like I've swallowed lead.

"Like any fairy, I guess. Handsome; gorgeous smile, blue eyes; not green like Puck's. I'd show you a picture but I lost my phone last month and all my photos were on it." She huffs, frustrated. "Now I don't have a single picture of him, can you believe it? I promised myself that when we next met, I'd take a lot of pictures of us on this new phone and get them printed right away."

"Does he have any um . . . marks. . . maybe on his face? Like scars, for instance?"

Red frowns, then laughs it off. "Goodness, Sabrina, why are you asking this? He doesn't have to be perfect, surely?"

I'm desperate now. "Just tell me, Red!"

"He has a scar above his eye, shaped like - "

" - a star." Both of us say it.

"Yeah." Red blinks. "Someone threw a spear at him and almost got him in the eye. How did you know about the scar? You do remember seeing him around Faerie, then!"

 _No. Mercies above, please, please, no._

I feel like I need to throw up. I am light-headed and heavy-hearted all at the same time.

 _How can I tell her?_

Daphne picks up on this, because she looks at me, suddenly suspicious.

"Sabrina? What is it?"

 _Every second of my silence speaks volumes of doom. I_ have _to say something._

"Red, I pray I'm mistaken, but I _have_ met him. He saved my life. And. . . "

 _I cannot say it. Not to my friend, not to_ anyone _._

 _But I must._

"Red, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. . . he's dead."


	28. Chapter 27

I watch Red's face change from shock to anger as she listens to me ramble on, explaining what happened, trying stupidly to justify the death of her lover as a noble sacrifice, an act of courage and defiance against a monster, a sentence of mercy out of an unimaginable alternative. My words are useless and cruel in the face of Red's loss, and I know it, but I can't stop talking. I only stop short of telling her it was Puck who'd killed him.

"No!" She rises, tripping on the folds of the picnic mat. "It's not true! That was someone else!"

Daphne and I try to reach out to her, but she shoves us and walks, then runs away, fury and shock fueling her retreat. Daphne whips around to face me, hoarsely whispering, "Are you absolutely sure?"

I nod dumbly, and Daphne, without another word, swiftly tracks her while I scramble to grab our bags before sprinting after them.

When I find them, Red is sitting on a park bench, her phone to her ear, biting her lip and trembling violently. Daphne is standing next to the bench - Red will not let her sit beside her - and she reads my look, shaking her head, her eyes large and sad.

We wait - wait for Red to exhaust herself dialing and listening and texting, wait for her to shout, "His inbox is full! Why is it full? Why hasn't he cleared it? Why isn't he answering?"

We wait for the wailing to begin and for Red to scream at the sky.

We have no words as we - finally - are allowed to hold her. I want to drive a knife through the Goblin King's body, want to hack off his head so he can no longer turn the minds of other innocents to his will, want to punish him for all the lives he has taken, who have left behind families and loved ones. I am paralyzed, livid, horrified - that in a matter of minutes, two separate events have collided in a nightmare of broken hearts and shattered lives.

And I am ashamed - that perhaps, I am feeling this way only because Oriel had been dating my friend; had he not been hers, would I have remembered him? Would I have hungered as strongly for retribution? Would I - or Puck- have sought out his kin to bring them closure?

Were the answers - or vengeance - even within our grasp, they would still be impotent.

Loss is not undone with justice.

When, after a long time, Red is finally calm again, we take her back to Faerie with us. She is too dazed to protest, only lets us lead her into the cab that ferries us deep into Central Park where we stand in the deepening twilight before the statue of Hans Christian Anderson - the gateway to Puck's kingdom - two sisters holding the broken shell of their friend between them. The joke we use as our entry pass echoes mockingly in our ears as we cross over from our world to his.

Inside, Gossamer, with her arm around Red, walks her to the healing rooms, her hand in Daphne's.

I am humming with nervous energy as I wait impatiently for them to disappear around the corner. Then, not caring if it is unqueenly, I turn and sprint down the hallways, looking for the one person I need more than any other.

I barge into the meeting room where he is with Mustardseed and four other Fae, all dressed in combat attire. Along with a chimp.

I'd been all prepared to throw myself into his arms and unload my grief and guilt on him, but this scene stops me cold.

"What's this?" I ask instead, frowning.

Puck looks up from the table he is bending over. Everyone else, sitting, watches us, completely still.

"Sabrina!" Puck greets me smoothly. "You remember my captains - Ash, Kalen, Silverwing, Caelum. And Sullivan." He waves at the chimp, who bares its teeth in salutation. "Sullivan used to live in my room in Ferryport Landing - he witnessed our very first kiss, and I know you remember _that_."

"What is this?" I repeat, ignoring the soft chorus of ' _My Lady_ 's that follow his introduction.

"Council of war," Puck replies easily.

"Council of _what_?"

"War. Fighting. Honor. Glory. Sometimes with weapons."

"Who's at war with us?"

"Technically, no one . . . yet. We're going to start it."

"What? Why? Do you have a death wish or something, Puck?"

"Funny you should say that, because it's actually sorta for you."

"Me?"

"See, I made a deal with Rhogin: his father's crown for the elixir. So we can save you."

"His father's crown? You're going to fight the Goblin King's army for a potion? That's madness! And you've been planning this for how long?"

"Ever since I found out that there was no way to stop you from dying, and the only way to save you was to bring you back after with that elixir. So I've been in strategy meetings since. Why - did you miss me being away all day?"

"And just when were you planning to tell me all this?" My hands are fisted and ready to throw a punch at him for his nonchalance.

"Well, ideally, not till we got back, all victorious, with the elixir in hand. I was going to casually mention something like, 'Oh, by the way, honeycakes, we took a side trip to the desert and brought you something to drink.' "

He waves his hand absently and then abruptly turns serious, his voice like iron. "Reality check: you'd never have agreed to it. You were always the party pooper."

"You're darned right I wouldn't have agreed!" I shout. "It's not some childish contest, Puck! We're talking about war! You don't just march into someone's kingdom and assassinate their king because of some pact!"

Mustardseed rises as if to leave, but Puck waves him down, then folds his arms across his chest and eyes me.

"Let us examine the facts of the case," he speaks with deadly calm. "My wife and Queen is dying. Her only hope is a mysterious elixir in the hands of the Goblin Prince. The Goblin Prince in question needs an army to overthrow his sleazebag father. If he can find one, he won't need the elixir. _I_ need the elixir and _I_ have an army. You do the Math."

I glare back. He is missing the point. "You can't put your kingdom at risk for me! Faerie has never been at war with the goblins! You said yourself that it's political - and physical - suicide to take on Gurdach."

"And let's not forget that small matter of kidnapping fairies and other Everafters and turning them into goblins."

"Yes, but he hasn't attacked us. _You're_ going to be making the first strike! Unprovoked!"

"I'd say carrying out experiments on my people with the intent to infiltrate my kingdom counts as provocation, sweetheart."

"You can't prove intent!"

"Well, I'm not waiting around for him to act on it!" Puck shouts. "What do want me to me to do? Let you die when I know exactly how to save you? How is that a bad plan?"

"It's a bad plan," I say, slowly and deliberately, "because you are making your soldiers go to war and possibly die for personal gain. You're sacrificing countless lives for mine as if they were nothing. Aren't you just as bad as Gurdach?"

Puck exchanges a look with Mustardseed.

"First," he turns back to me. " _All_ war is personal. And second, I am not _making_ anyone do anything. The captains explained it to the ranks and asked for anyone who wanted to fight, to step forward. Every single warrior who's going to fight this war volunteered to be there, because they believe in this mission and because they want to save their Queen and stop that piece of degenerate _filth_ from declaring Armageddon on the entire Everafter world!"

We stare at each other in a silent battle of wills, the air thick with tension.

Finally, I drop my gaze. I try another tactic.

"How many soldiers volunteered, dare I ask?"

"Five hundred."

"Of our trained warriors," Mustardseed qualifies. "We're training another five hundred new recruits now, and with Sullivan's chimp platoon, we'll have just over a thousand."

I step back.

"And how large is Gurdach's army?"

"Rhogin says it's about ten thousand, excluding the uh . . . converts."

"Twenty to one. _Nice_ odds. And are we stockpiling glop grenades, too? And stinkbombs? We aren't eleven anymore, Puck. You're gambling your kingdom on pranks and parlor tricks, and for what? A rumor! A _rumor_ that this elixir will do what we want it to do! Try this for a reality check: if Gurdach beats you, you'll lose _Faerie_!"

"He won't beat me, darling. I'm actually offended that you have so little faith in me."

"It's not faith! Damn it, how can you still be so arrogant at a time like this?! I've seen inside his mind. He's a monster, Puck. A _monster_ , completely and irredeemably _insane_. Do you know what he can do to your men? To. . . to _you_?"

"Believe me, if there were any other way . . ." he spits out.

"We'll keep looking. Negotiating. Let Rhogin fight it out with his demon father himself. We'll go back to the journals, use Basil's Synapse thing, find Baba Yaga, anything but war. Just give it a little more time. Please."

"You don't have time, love."

 _And there it is: the reckless train relentlessly speeding on broken tracks toward the drop-off to nowhere that is my stupid, fragile life._

Puck must sense that I am worn down, because the fire leaves him, too, and he steps towards me, closing the chasm I'd kept between us as we'd argued. Now his forehead is against mine as he holds my face in his hands. Mustardseed tactfully ushers everyone else out of the room, but Puck and I barely notice it.

"Sabrina," he says, barely above a whisper, "Trust me. I have a plan. It isn't shenanigans. Whether you believe it or not, when I've had access to my warriors, I've led our armies to war for centuries. And before that, I watched Oberon do the same. We're _Fae_ \- we know how to fight. We're good at it. And I've never lost a battle. _Ever_."

I think back to the Everafter War, when all Puck had was his chimp army, his pranks and his little wooden sword - even then, he was a master strategist and an incredibly skilled fighter. And as an immortal prince of Faerie under his father's rule, he and Mustardseed must have had military and combat training in addition to all the other political stuff that were part of the education of royalty. His argument, I hate to admit, is perfectly sound.

But it isn't enough.

I push him away and stare him down.

"Well, then, I'm coming, too. I'm not going to sit around doing nothing while my - our - people fight for me."

"No, you're not. Normally, I'd love nothing more than for you to watch my back in a fight. But you could black out or die or something equally annoying, and I wouldn't be able to save you. I'd fight better if I knew you were safe and far away from that bastard."

He's right, of course. I hate that he is. I feel like stamping my foot, I'm so frustrated.

"This sucks. Sucks big time."

"You can say that again," he snorts. "Anyway, what was it you came rushing in for? Surely it wasn't because you were spying on us? We kept everything a secret; you're sneaky, but you're not that good."

I remember, then, why I am here. I brace myself - it's my turn now to deliver the doozy.

"Puck, we killed Red's . . ."

I don't even know what he is to Red.

"That fairy we killed - Oriel - the one who saved my life - he was dating Red. Red loved him, and we killed him."

I collapse into him, feeling the weight of my guilt and shame and helplessness wash over me, pierce through me.

Puck is still as he cradles me against him, sighing heavily. And, like a breath viscous with all that is poison to my soul, I feel the panic leave me and I can breathe again. For all the hostility and indignation and anger that drove us apart just minutes earlier, here - held by him with no space between us - I am safe.

He murmurs, " _I_ killed him. Not you. I've been trying to find his family, but he didn't have any. No next of kin, nothing. His comrades only said he was seeing a girl, but he never told them her name."

"It was Red."

Puck sighs again. "Where is she?"

I tell him, and he takes my hand and we walk to tell Red what we've done.

Red does not wail or scream at us or attack us.

Instead, she closes her eyes, breathes deeply and concentrates until her shuddering stills. Then she looks at us once more, perfectly calm, and says she'd like to be alone for a while, if we don't mind. So we leave, taking Daphne with us. And when I turn once more to look at her, she is sitting ramrod straight with her hands in her lap, her face slightly turned toward the window, watching the moon.

* * *

It is hours later when the scream comes.

I am in Puck's arms, but it is not the tentative, passionate reunion of the night before. Death has brushed me today, narrowly missing, but mocking me with its soft wings, promising to call again in the not-too-distant future. I am not afraid of oblivion, but I dread the losing, the abandoning, the cruel bereaving of the living who must pick up the pieces and go on. These, and many other thoughts run rampant in my mind as I lie with his skin against mine, curled under the blankets, my heart pounding in my ears.

Then we hear it. Preceded by the thud of something large hitting its target with great force, then the sound of breaking as more objects are hurled, the feral snarl boils into a scream, making our hair stand on end. It rings through the walls and hangs in the air, a single sound of pure wrath and anguish. We are still listening, frozen, when it finally dies away, weak and thin and spent.

In the aching silence that follows, Puck mumbles, "How many more before it is enough? Each one he takes belongs to someone - lover, friend, son, brother, father . . ."

"Husband."

He looks at me, eyes blazing in the moonlight. "How can I not do something to stop him?"

I offer no dispute. He is right.

But he is also _mine._

And I am selfish and afraid and it is he whom I want to protect, he whose life I want to preserve by keeping him where that monster cannot shatter his mind and claim him, one twisted fragment at a time. I have lost him once, and I will not lose him again.

I whisper into Puck's chest. "I can't watch you leave me and walk into a war. I can't do this. Not when I've just found you."

He whispers back, "I'm planning on returning. And you'd better, too. That's what this whole thing is about, after all, isn't it? Finding that way for you to come back?"

"What if I don't? Or can't? What if it doesn't work?"

"It has to. Don't say it won't. It's all I have to keep me from falling apart. I have to believe you will come back."

"Promise me that if I don't, you'll keep living. Find someone else - eventually - and move on like I said, okay?"

He huffs.

"In case you haven't realized it, Sabrina, I burnt my bridges when I stopped being eleven. I can't unlive the past few years and un-grow up, you know. If you died, who would I be twenty-nine for? Did you forget why I grew up? Not so I wouldn't be alone or to get a job or even to be King. I grew up for _you_. I'm not going to move on and find someone else to take your place. It doesn't work that way."

"And there's another reason you can't die now," he continues after a pause, his voice hoarse. "You know all this marriage and love stuff? I'm not good at any of it, okay? And we only get one shot at it with each other. Just _one_ shot per lifetime. You want to talk about lousy odds? Try those for size. But then, I'm thinking that if that lifetime were long enough, maybe I could make up for all my screw-ups. And maybe even have second chances to do over my _really, really_ bad choices. I was so happy when you became an Everafter. Because now I'll have enough time to finally get it right. See?"

My throat is tight with all the things I am feeling for this beautiful boy - I could outlive immortality and still not deserve him.

"But you stayed, Puck."

 _When I didn't, When_ I _ran away from you to where I didn't have to try_. "That counts. That _so_ counts. Everything else is just icing, you know?"

"I had to. Where else could I go?" He whispers back.

We are silent for a long time, holding each other, breathing each other in. Then I say, as I've found myself saying a lot the past week, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"You got such a bum deal. After thousands of years of being a kid, you grow up for me, and then when we get married, we lose our child, I walk out on you and act like you're nobody, and make up an imaginary boyfriend to have an affair with, then when we _finally_ get back together, I'm dying."

He snorts quietly into the darkness. "Always so dramatic. When you've lived as long as me, you wouldn't be surprised at how much can happen to a person. Anyway, what a ride it's been, huh? No one can say it hasn't been exciting. And I don't intend for it to end anytime soon, so, like I said, you'll just have to come back and keep going with me, Stinky."

"I want that more than anything," I tell him. "Please let there be enough magic - for real - that can do that."

It is his lips, rather than his words, that answer me. Nudging his way down my cheek to my mouth, he arrests my thoughts and I let myself drown in the scent and weight and heat of him. Our lovemaking is tender but deliberate tonight, our intimacy an extension of who we have already been to each other, over the years in and out of my memory. Every touch is strong and deep and fierce - as if by the time we have come to this moment, we are no longer drifting on the volatile currents of passion; this is a love between wanderers who have chosen each other, who have let go, and have come skidding back because there is nowhere else that's better.

It is, for both of us, "I am yours" a thousand times more than "you are mine."

And I am in wonder that for all that my mind has lost of him, my body remembers every bit of his.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for responding to the informal poll, guys. Daily (or whenever) updates it is, then.**

 **I know I keep saying this about previous chapters, but _this_ is really my favorite chapter so far. I'm not sure why. I mean, when I finished writing this (however many months ago), I exhaled and sighed and just felt tired. And I couldn't write any other chapters after this one for a long time, because it was so weighty and full of all kinds of endings that I didn't know how to go on. **

**I did, eventually. Did you panic? Don't. We're nowhere near the end, and it's going to get worse before we're finally done (sorry).**


	29. Chapter 28

Five - or five hundred; I lose count - days go by in which each one is exactly like the one before: a morning ritual of checkups with Gossamer, breakfast with the family, and then random activities in and around Faerie, trying to reconnect with my Life Before, finishing in dinner with whomever has returned from their various errands in time for the evening meal. Some days I manage to catch Puck on his way out when I open sleepy eyes to the world, but mostly he leaves before I wake. We don't talk about it, but I know he heads off to strategy meetings and training sessions with his captains and their warriors.

Basil has returned to school. Daphne says it isn't just that he's a "total geek about his classes" - there's a girl that's spicing up his motivation to be a model student - and I am oddly relieved that such ordinary things as crushes and homework still exist amidst the craziness of everything else that is now our new normal. Mom and Dad are in and out of Faerie, shuttling between their work and other jobs, returning most evenings to eat and end the day with us.

Red is still in Faerie, cloistered away in her sorrow in one of its many rooms. She doesn't join us for meals. Daphne, who is taking time off work to be here for Red, sometimes chooses to have her meals with her. I ask her about Red, but she doesn't have much to report: she's grieving, but she doesn't hate Puck or me; she needs time, she's crashed a bit and has to fight her way back up again.

Gossamer is helping with her body and her soul, she says, and I realize with pride that our head healer has surpassed even her father at tending to the complex needs of her patients. I miss Red, and while I am no longer crippled by guilt, I still struggle with regret that I have helped push her back into whatever hole she's in. I hope - not without some pessimism - that someday, she and I can be friends again.

It is - surprisingly - Mustardseed whose company fills the quiet evenings when there is a lull in activity and few of my family with whom to visit. Apparently, there are some meetings at which Puck does not require his brother's presence, or else their training sessions do not coincide; during those times, Mustardseed comes to the large visiting rooms, the ones in which we often entertain guests and which are bathed in sunshine even late in the day, where I like to unwind before dinner.

Sometimes Daphne joins us, when she is not with Red, and I am amused to watch the friendship between my sister and the younger Fae prince play out. In the beginning, I'd been confused when she kept addressing Mustardseed as "Bill" and wondered if he had a modern middle name of which I was not aware. When I'd asked her, she'd gone off in a peal of laughter and explained that it was short for Brother-In-Law, which she'd taken to calling him because he'd acted too stiff and formal to deserve a first name but "Prince" seemed too generic and he'd refused to answer to "Your Highness". So Brother-In-Law it was, which eventually got endearingly abbreviated to BIL, and became their nickname for him (although he never called her SIL in return; only "Daphne").

They are so comfortable with each other, these two - although I am hard pressed to think of anyone who _isn't_ comfortable with Daphne - from their body language and easy exchange to the way they look at each other with exasperation whenever they witness an argument between Puck and me. I've asked Daphne if she'd ever had a thing for Mustardseed, but she'd always widened her eyes in shock and said _that would be, like, incest_ , in spite of my defense that it would most certainly not be. He, in turn, had never batted an eyelid at the string of boys she'd left in her wake, which he somehow seemed to know all about. So I'd left it as that, not wanting to interfere in her love life any more than she'd had in mine.

But there are times when they think that the other - and I - aren't watching, that she'd throw a particular look in his direction, and he in hers, and it tempts me to wonder.

This evening, I am alone with Mustardseed - he in an armchair and I curled up on a loveseat facing the fireplace. We are enjoying a protracted spring, but it is close enough to summer that warmth from the day lingers into the night, so the fire is not lit. I am reading one of the old Grimm journals that we'd apparently relocated to the libraries of Faerie after the wedding. Mustardseed is stretched out with his head thrown back, as if everything hurts and this position offers some relief.

"Your husband is a hard taskmaster," he says presently.

I remember Puck training Daphne and me during the Everafter War and yes, he was merciless, and grumpy, to boot.

"What's he done now?" I ask.

"Everything," Mustardseed says with his eyes closed, rolling his head and trying to get his shoulders to relax. "Why is it important that we learn to scale walls with only one hand? I mean, what could we possibly need the other hand to hold that could not be more efficiently strapped to our bodies? And this on top of being able to fly, which sort of makes climbing moot."

"Well, he taught _me_ to fight with a wooden toothpick. Who can tell what goes on in that twisted mind of his?"

"You did win that war, so I'm hoping that we'll win this one, too. If nothing else, just so all this pain will be worth it. And those chimps! The things he has them doing!"

"Do you think we'll win?"

"I don't know. Fae warriors are formidable opponents, and ours are in excellent fighting condition, but we are grossly outnumbered. And there is also the matter of Gurdach's mental capabilities - a serious advantage over us."

"Can you talk Puck out of it?"

He opens his eyes and looks at me, a half grin on his face. "You're surely not serious? This is _Puck_ we're talking about - he's more stubborn than a thousand mules. Fortunately, he's usually right, which is the only reason I trust him and let him have his way at all. No, we're not backing down. It's just a matter of when he thinks we're going in."

"And did he say when?"

"Could be any day now. Each day we wait, we're losing more of you, he says, while Gurdach only gets stronger. And who knows how many other Everafters he's catching and turning into homemade horrors even as we speak. How are you doing, anyway?"

"Practically wasting away with boredom."

"You know what I mean, Sabrina."

"Well, I'm not going to get better, Mustardseed. I'm going to die. And, strangely, it's a relief to say it, because it will be an improvement over being totally cracked and seeing people where there aren't any and forgetting people who are right in front of me. I just want to make good use of the time I have left and go out with a bang, so to speak. Not sitting around waiting to 'keel over', as Puck so wittingly put it."

"You always were a hard one for staying put," he comments dryly. "It was what convinced me from the beginning that you and Puck were a good match. One wouldn't stay out of danger and the other more protective than a mother hen in a fox den. It would be funny if not for the fact that you two were also the rulers of an ancient kingdom and not a couple of adventurous teenagers. That said, I'm glad you've made up. Aside from having our Queen back, your presence has infinitely improved the mood here. As I'd mentioned earlier, Puck is now a completely different person now that he's actually bearable for a change."

Proper as always, witty and eloquent and kind, I wonder for the umpteenth time at how different he is from Puck, and what kind of kingdom Faerie would be had Mustardseed been the firstborn. As long as I've known him, he'd never been interested in ruling, always content instead simply to be regent, and Puck's most loyal supporter.

"Thank you for being there for Puck when I was um… not here." I say.

He looks at me and smiles. "Thank you for coming back."

A sound in the doorway makes us both turn to look as Puck walks in. At first I don't recognize him. His head, once a mop of tousled gold, is now shorn almost to the scalp. It accentuates his eyes and ears and emphasizes his otherworldliness. Even in regular clothes, he looks mean and dangerous.

I rise, my hand flying to my mouth. "You shaved your head!"

His face is grim. "Technically, I had the royal barber do it, and then do the rest of the army. Fae warriors always shave our heads before a battle - solidarity and all that. Unless, of course, it's a sudden attack, in which case that becomes sort of the last priority."

"But . . . your hair!"

"How you do harp on that. It'll grow back," he says shortly, and then turns to Mustardseed. "You're up next - and your platoon."

Mustardseed nods and without a word, leaves us alone.

"So," Puck begins, hands in pockets.

In response, I walk up to him and rub my hand over the nape of his neck, feeling the bristly contours of his head under my palm. There is nothing for my fingers to catch onto, to run through.

"I'm leaving in the morning." His voice is soft as he looks down at me, his eyes bright under his lashes.

"Already?"

"Rhogin's advice. Apparently, Gurdach's close enough to launching his dastardly plan that it'd be dangerous to wait any longer. In any case, it's later than I'd wanted, but I needed to be sure the soldiers were ready. Everyone has orders to get a good night's sleep and we depart before sunrise."

"Classic. Under the cover of darkness, element of surprise, etcetera."

He laughs, but there is little mirth in it. "The thing about trods is the time zones. We never know what time it is on the other side. It could be high noon or midnight. Absolutely no guarantee of darkness, but yes, we are definitely hoping for the element of surprise."

"Trod? You're going back to Disneyworld?" I realize I hadn't thought about how his army was going to access the goblin realm. Somehow, squadrons of powerful Fae warriors stomping in formation through a kids' wonderland and mysteriously disappearing into a tunnel in full view of screaming rollercoaster passengers seems a bit dubious.

He blinks at me, frowning, before his face relaxes in understanding. "Oh, I forgot you don't remember. Faerie has a trod to anywhere. It's like a universal gateway. You only need to know where you want to go."

"Then why on earth did we have to fly to _Florida_ to visit Rhogin?"

"Because I wanted to try the Buzz Lightyear ride, duh! I thought it was obvious!"

I roll my eyes at him, my husband: immortal Faerie King, military strategist and fell warrior . . . and his other juvenile split personalities. Truly, there is no one like him in a million years.

Suddenly, I am overcome by sheer terror that I will lose him in this war; that this time, his confidence is disastrously misplaced and that Gurdach will get ahold of him, shatter his mind and leave him broken on the battlefield, and I will never see him again, never again hear his laugh, never again feel his contagious zest for life and adventure, never again find home in his arms.

Choking, I pull him close and hold him tight, breathing him in - sunshine and sweat and the natural masculine scent of his skin that I'd loved even when it was locked away in the unreachable places of my mind.

"Don't go."

He doesn't answer, doesn't defend himself, doesn't rationalize.

"If anything happens to you -"

"Mustardseed will return and be King. He has orders to fall back if things look bad."

"That's not what I meant. If you go, you might die."

"And if I don't, _you_ will."

I fist my hands behind him and pound them against his back as he continues.

"This is sounding an lot like one of those awful chick flicks. You know, like -" here he speaks like a breathy damsel - "oh, Handsomeson! If you go, the bad villain will slaughter you! And I will have no one to give me heirs to our kingdom!"

He switches to grunting male fighter: "Fear not, Prettyrella! I am the fiercest warrior in all the realms! Not only will I vanquish the foe, but I also pledge to bring home twenty goblin heads as souvenirs that we can mount above our mantlepiece! I will return in triumph and honor and you will be highly esteemed among all the women in the land and I will give you as many heirs as you desire!

(Damsel's voice): "My brave hero! Yes! I have faith in you! Go forth and march to glory! Here is my handkerchief!

(Male Fighter's voice): "Behold my lady's token! I will wear it in my breast and ride with your favor resting upon me to certain victory!"

He stops his charade and slaps his hand over his face. "I stink at this romance crap. Look, can I just give you my word that I'll _try_ not to get killed? And can you just say something like, 'Break a leg, gashead!' ? No, wait - that's probably not the best thing to say just before a battle."

" _Prettyrella_?" In spite of the severity of the situation, I am smiling. And he returns with a smile of his own, wicked and cocky, his new haircut making him look wilder and more beautiful than ever.

 _Mine_ , the thought hits me with a sudden thrill. What does it mean, I find myself further wondering, that even when my own mind had conspired to convince me otherwise, I'd lost my heart to him all over again?

"I love you." Out of the overflow of that heart, my mouth speaks.

"I love you back," he says, and, without warning, scoops me up and carries me out of the room, down the hallway to our suites. When I ask him what he is doing, he smirks, pronouncing, "I have a few hours until sunrise," and locks the door.


	30. Chapter 29

The sky outside is still dark when I awake to a presence in the room. I reach across the bed but it is empty, as it has been on many of the mornings this past week. I switch on the bedside lamp and squint in the sudden brightness.

Puck is standing beside the bed, fully dressed in his black combat gear and boots, his short hair reflecting the soft light in a glowing halo. He has weapons now: the visible hilt of a long sword strapped vertically down his back - to be out of the way of his wings, I imagine - shorter knives sheathed along his thighs, and a crossbow in his hands, with a streamlined quiver buckled tightly against one hip. He carries no shield - a message that he is on the offense and has no plans for mercy.

Watching me in the semi-darkness, he is an intimidating sight - all lean muscle and black steel, motionless and unsmiling. Despite knowing he is not here to kill me, I still jump and forget for a moment that he is anything but a warrior, focused and deadly.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he speaks barely above a whisper. "Just issued the marching orders and wanted to sneak in to see you on our way out." He smiles ever so slightly. "I never get tired of watching you sleep."

I sit up and swallow. "Is it sunrise already?"

"Almost." He bends and cups my face with his hand, scanning it as if to commit it to memory.

"I'm all out of hankies," I say, my voice cracking.

"Just as well - dud at romance, remember?"

"No, you're not. Look at you - my knight in dark armor heading out to save the day."

He shrugs, his voice a low purr. "Well, you always did need saving."

We are silent for a while and I am suddenly self-conscious that I have serious bedhead and am probably a wreck while Puck looks - and I willingly admit it - the total opposite. I reach up to rearrange my hair, rub the crust out of my eyes - anything just so his last memory of me as he strides off to war isn't of the walking dead.

He chuckles low in his throat. "Stop. You're absolutely beautiful, love. And after last night, I can die happy on the battlefield."

"Not funny, Puck. Don't make death jokes."

He smiles and runs his thumb along my lips, then leans down to kiss me, soft and lingering, as if there weren't a battalion of armed fighters waiting for him on the other side of our bedroom door.

"Later, then, Stinky." He winks and turns to leave.

I watch him pause at the door, but he steels himself and does not look back.

The door closes.

My stomach flares into panic, and I want to run after him but I take deep breaths and make myself stay calm as I slide out of bed. I give myself an hour to shower, get dressed, and force down some breakfast, grateful that one of the many perks about being Queen is having any kind of food brought to my rooms at any time of the day. Then I walk down the hallway to the healing wing.

Gossamer is surprised to see me.

"You're early."

"I'm not here for a checkup," I say, trying to sound like I'm her Queen and not her patient.

"I suspected not, since you're dressed for combat."

I look down at what I'd picked from my closet - the one I'd refused to stock with frocks and gowns - to wear this morning: dark T-shirt and pants under a lightly padded military vest, and combat boots.

"I need your help," I tell her. "I'm going after Puck."

To her credit, she does not order me to Be Sensible And Consider My Health. She doesn't even react, only listens to me plough on.

"I need to know where this trod is that can get me to the goblin kingdom. And I need a weapon."

"I'm just the healer," she says, carefully, "not the arms specialist."

"You know where things are here. Once upon a time, I probably did, too, but my mind is on permanent vacation, so I have to enlist . . . advisers."

"Do you want to hear my advice?"

"I always want to hear your advice, Gossamer. But this time, I suspect it may not be aligned with my plans."

"And what plans are those?"

"To take down the Goblin King."

She sighs. "Recently, that's been everyone's plan. How dreadfully overused."

"Well, _I_ know how to get to him. But don't ask me to tell you how, because I won't. You'll have to trust me. I just need you to show me the trod and get me a sword or something I can use." I stare her down, trying to intimidate her with my authority the way I've seen Puck do. Then I feel bad and add, "Please."

She breathes evenly, annoyingly calm, as I wait. Then she looks at me, and I am convinced that her piercing gaze sees everything, including my plan.

"The queens of Faerie were always short on common sense, I've noticed. It must be how the kings pick them out from the other compliant maidens to marry." She sounds almost amused, as she rises to her feet and beckons me to follow. "Come with me."

Dumbly, I accompany her to the armory, taking in the sight of weapon-lined walls and shelves, the scent of metal and oil and grease and leather mingling with the ambient reek of stale sweat. Even fairies leave behind the smell of physical exertion, I muse. _They are not that different from humans._

Gossamer speaks to the soldier in charge and returns with a light sword, plain and unadorned.

"This is the one you favored," she tells me. "It hasn't been used for a while, but they've kept it in good condition. Do you remember how to use it?"

"No, but hopefully I won't need to. It's just to scare the enemy. Do you think it will work?"

She raises her eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want a mace or a halberd for that?"

The soldier in charge approaches us and hands me some metal stars. "Your shuriken, My Lady."

"Oh, yes," Gossamer brightens, "You used to love those. You were very good. Even His Majesty kept away when you were throwing."

I take them in my hands and feel a jolt, like they are on the edge of my memory and, given the right moment, the fog will clear and my body will instantly know how to wield them. I tuck them into my belt, and strap the scabbard of the sword - a little clumsily - onto my body. I practice drawing it and sheathing it a few times, feeling Gossamer's eyes on me, as well as those of the soldier. Finally, after watching my awkward movements for long enough as is polite, he steps forward and tentatively offers, "May I, My Lady?"

I gratefully accept his help as he takes me through the motions.

"Your mind doesn't remember, but your body will," he assures me. "You had considerable skill before . . ."

"Before I became a freaking amnesiac," I finish for him.

"I was going to say 'the accident', My Lady. But yes. You were particularly good at hand combat, and those stars, but not that far behind either with a sword."

I suddenly remember a question I'd forgotten to ask until now.

"By the way, why does everyone call me 'My Lady'? Aren't queens supposed to be 'Your Majesty or something like that?"

Gossamer laughs.

"Because that was what _you_ wanted! At first, you didn't want to be called anything other than 'Sabrina', but it wasn't proper for the Queen to have no formal address. You refused all the traditional ones, like 'Your Highness' or 'Your Majesty' but eventually allowed 'My Lady'. It's been 'My Lady' ever since."

"Ah. That makes sense."

We are quiet as I practice with the sword for a while. Then Gossamer speaks again.

"I take it His Majesty doesn't know?"

"And he's not here to stop me, since he went ahead and left me behind."

"Convenient."

"Yes, I thought so, too." I straighten and hold the sword still in my hand. It feels balanced and _right_ , as if it remembers me, even if I don't. I sheathe it in one smooth motion and I note the look of satisfaction on the soldier's face.

Gossamer is quiet for a moment, watching me practice. Then she asks, "Why are you doing this?"

I know she isn't referring to my weapons dry-run. I don't know how to answer her without spilling secrets.

"His Majesty can take care of himself." Her voice rises in volume as she presents her arguments. "And his army, though small, is extremely capable. The Goblin King has no score with your kind; he himself admitted that he doesn't even consider humans a threat. You told us he said that, didn't you? This war will never reach your world. You could sit this one out and possibly buy yourself a few more weeks . . ."

She is all but wringing her hands.

"Fae are my kind, too," I say slowly. "You are my people. I am your Queen. I may not dress like one or dance like one, and I certainly can't handle magic like one, but I will not stand by when I know I can do something about it."

We stare at each other. I don't know where the words had come from, because they sound high and lofty and convey none of my secret fear of losing Puck to the goblins. But they are true, and they sit well with me now that I've heard them from my own mouth.

"When are you leaving?" Gossamer exhales, at last responding. "Will I have time to look you over first?"

"I need to leave ASAP, Goss."

Her mouth sets in a stubborn line. "I'll only show you the trod after the checkup."

"Fine," I concede. "But if Puck gets his arms - or something more important - chopped off in the Twilight Zone while we're reading eye charts, I'm going to be very upset."

"I'll be quick," she promises. "Practice your stars for a bit."

We agree to meet back at the healing rooms in an hour. She is already there when I arrive, and the checkup goes smoothly. I give her vague answers when she asks if I've been feeling worse; I decide there is no point in telling her that I've seen my imaginary Psych. classmates playing card games in the lounge or that I'd opened my inbox folder to see two messages from Marian, asking when I'd like to make up for the couple of sessions I'd missed.

Or that just this morning, as I was getting dressed, I'd seen Bradley sitting at the patio table outside my bedroom, reading the newspaper, dressed only in a towel wrapped around his waist. He hadn't turned to acknowledge me, but I'd stood for a while, staring at his back, remembering the times I'd run my fingers down the hollow of his spine as he'd leaned into my touch and hummed in pleasure.

No, some thoughts are best kept to myself. We both know they weren't going to disappear overnight, anyway.

Finally, she is done and we look at each other, a queen and her healer, still rebuilding the friendship they once had.

"Is this the part where you hand me a priceless family heirloom weapon that will make me invincible?" I ask her.

She smiles sadly. "No, I have nothing for you but my prayers. Make sure you come back."

"I can't promise that," I say, "and I think you know it. At least, not the way I am now. I'm heading out to war, not a dinner party, remember? I hope Puck will find me and the elixir, is all. Maybe you can get the magic to work, when he does."

Her eyes fill with tears as she pulls me into a fierce embrace.

"I know you don't remember me . . . fully . . ." she says, her breath hitching, "and I know you are first my Queen, but you are also my friend and you are precious to me."

I hug her back, hating that all I have to cherish of her are these few days of merely tasting the borders of her warmth and company.

"If it was anything like what you've been to me this week," I begin, but my throat tightens and I cannot go on.

Then we are apart again, and she takes my hand.

"Now, before I change my mind," she says, and pulls me down the hallways and out to the Golden Egg, the pub that fronts the entrance to my kingdom. Nobody spares us even a glance - no doubt the patrons think I'm half-mad already, and my ninja getup is simply one of the newer and more creative manifestations of that lunacy. We stop by the restrooms, in front of a door marked, "Employees Only."

"In here," she says.

"You're kidding, right? The trod is the janitor's closet in the pub?"

"In Oberon's day, it used to be in the men's bathroom, but Titania threw a fit and said it was sexist and prevented women from using it -for shopping and all, you know - so he had it moved."

I shake my head. My in-laws were certified weirdos.

She squeezes my hand. "Remember, this trod takes you anywhere. You need to say where you're going. Be specific, or you'll end up in the middle of some forest or desert."

I push open the door and see, instead of shelves of cleaning supplies, an archway made of indistinct crystal shapes, moving and glistening in the light of their own making. There is nothing visible beyond the opening.

I let the door close behind me, cutting off my way back. There is only forward now.

I pause, and pat my pocket, to be sure I have my secret weapon, the one that didn't come from the armory but that is more powerful than anything else I have on me.

Then I take a deep breath and step towards the portal.

Just as, from behind, the door opens and a hand grabs me.

* * *

 **A/N: Responding to recent reviews here:**

 **Mintylsun: Thank you for your kind words! But -oh dear, tears. There _might_ be more to come. I'm sorry! **

**AvoidingResponsibilities: Thank you! I'm glad you think P is realistic; it's always slightly risky, writing what you don't know. I mean, I'm not male. Or a fairy. ;)**

 **incognlto: Oriel. . . sniff. I'm sorry, but he really is gone. Poor Red. And poor you.**

 **bluejustice13: Thank you. You'll have to keep reading to find out what happens to P. But I'll keep those chapters coming, so you won't have to wait too long!**

 **silverwombat: Thank you, as always, for your thoughtful reviews! I like Mustardseed so much, and thought that he was so serious in the books that he needed a character makeover so that he'd gain a bit of a sense of humor. After all, he must have had one, to live with P all those centuries, right? As for Gossamer, she'll appear again later, so hooray!**

 **The Queen of Valencia Torgue: Yay! I am glad this story keeps you entertained at work. I'll keep the chapters coming!**

 **Grace: I'm glad you like my story!**

 **Anonymous Guests: It's hard to write individual responses to you guys without getting all mixed up, so here's a general response: Yes, I'll keep the updates coming, no, not all the chapters end _that_ way, and yes, I will continue writing!**

 **I appreciate all your reviews and comments, friends!**


	31. Chapter 30

I turn.

"Did you think you could sneak off without backup?" Daphne stands with hands on hips, next to Red, who has one hand on my arm.

"What are you doing here?" I spit out.

"Guess." They nod down to their outfits, which are almost identical to mine. Red is also wearing a dark grey hoodie, which makes her look like a thug.

"Who told you?"

"Gossamer. Although I've also been keeping an eye on you, just in case you decided to do something dumb. Which you have." Daphne snorts. "I can't believe you thought you could leave us behind, sis."

My eyes flick over to Red's. We haven't spoken since Puck and I had left her mourning Oriel.

"Red. . . I'm . . ."

She holds out up her hand to stop me. "I'm still screaming on the inside, if that's what you're wondering. But I'm not mad at you, or Puck. You did what you had to do. Gossamer suggested that some action might take my mind off . . . might help me, so. . . In any case, if this is to get that filthy swine responsible for what happened to Oriel, then I'm in."

I nod, my throat tight, my eyes suspiciously prickling as I take in the sight of us, hung about with lethal weapons, crowded into a tiny janitor's closet. In spite of having failed to sneak away on my own, I am relieved to have company.

Daphne suddenly giggles. "We're like Charlie's Angels!"

"Except we're not taking orders from anybody," I point out.

"Amen." Red finishes solemnly, her eyes glinting.

"On three, then." Daphne holds up her fingers.

We count down, and step through the portal.

Darkness engulfs us and mutes our senses. We blink, instinctively backing into one another, and wait for our eyes to adjust.

Before us lies the empty plain ringed with mountainous terrain, which I recognize as the arid, sprawling front yard to the Goblin King's fortress. There are two moons overhead, one full and the other a mean sliver, on opposite sides of a sky filled with unfamiliar constellations already fading as it lightens over the hills. We have emerged not far from where the trod from Disneyworld opened into this realm. But while we'd left Faerie at high noon, this is the queer half-light hour before dawn, and the land is desolate. There is no sign of Puck's army, or any of the goblin denizens they have come to challenge.

"Nice place," Daphne hisses through her teeth. "All we're missing are the howling wolves."

Red clears her throat. "I can arrange something."

I shoot her a startled glance. Surely she doesn't still dabble in the power of the Big Bad Wolf?

She looks back at me with a feral smile on her lips that leaves me worried. Either my memory of her renouncing the horrors of her childhood isn't as untarnished as I'd thought, or else she is not above resurrecting dark specters from her past to battle her grief.

"Where is everybody?" I wonder aloud, forcing myself to focus on the task before us.

Where, indeed? I remember Puck mentioning the unpredictable time zone differences between worlds, and am suddenly afraid that this is the barren aftermath of a battle in which we've arrived far too late to make a difference.

But then I see, in the distance, the lighted windows of Gurdach's fortress. It is not the picture of a stronghold breached and laid waste; it is - for want of a better word- homely.

Perhaps we are not late; early, even.

It is hard to decide what to do first - locate Puck's army or storm the castle ourselves to do what I came for. Daphne turns to me with the same question. But it is answered for us when we hear the sudden sound of wings - thousands of them in a dull drone - as, with a storm of sand and dust, a battalion of Fae emerges from holes in the hills and takes to the air. Huddled in the shadow of a copse of trees, we are hidden to them as they roar overhead, the beat of their wings the only noise they make. It is an aerial attack, and we have arrived just in time to watch the show begin.

Not wanting to miss any of it, we run along the sand behind them, not caring about stealth at this point - we are hardly more noticeable than a flying swarm a thousand strong.

Just before they reach the fortress, the swarm drops some kind of cargo and divides into four before disappearing into the inky night. In the silence that follows, the ground cargo suddenly moves - it is _alive_ \- and advances toward the building. As we get closer, it - they - reach the foot of the walls, but they do not stop; with mighty leaps, they land on the smooth stone and begin climbing.

And in the cold moonlight reflected off the sheer stone face, we at last see what they are - a platoon of chimps, skillfully scaling the insurmountable walls of the Goblin King's fortress.

From the deep pools of shadows on the ground, we crane our necks and watch with bated breath as the animals slip over the battlements with a stealthiness that even I envy. Moments later, bodies are flung over the walls and we see them as they land.

The chimps have disarmed the goblin archers and left the roof open for the Fae army.

Daphne raises an eyebrow at me.

"Wow," she whispers. "That's way cooler than glop grenades."

 _And more deadly._

I eye the bodies of the archers, their limbs twisted unnaturally where they fell, and meditate for a moment on the fact that Puck's battle strategies now involve taking lives. And not just of the odd dragon or jabberwocky in self-defensive one-on-one combat - these are collateral damage factored into an invasion plan to assassinate the enemy.

I am starkly reminded of Puck's words in his war council: _it isn't shenanigans_.

 _We are no longer playing games._

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of wings once more as the swarm emerges from the darkness and enters the building from four directions. At the head of each group is a single fairy in full armor - a captain. My heart clenches; one of them could have - _should have-_ been Oriel. I steal a glance at Red beside me - her jaw is set as she watches them, her beautiful face hard where I can see it partially obscured by her hood.

But they are now inside the fortress - Puck's army of warriors whose sole goal is to find and take the life of the King.

"We should go in now," Red whispers, "while there's pandemonium. It's all the diversion we need."

"You go ahead," I whisper back. "I have something to take care of first. I'll find you. Go to the dungeons. If there are any prisoners who haven't been infected, release them. But not the infected ones. Don't let those escape, either. Knock them out or. . . or . . . kill them, if you have to. Believe me, it's far more merciful than letting them live."

They nod, and speed toward the gateway.

I take a deep breath and reach into my breast pocket to draw out the weapon I'd hidden.

 _Puck's pan pipe._

It had been ridiculously easy to obtain - pilfered from his clothes where they'd fallen after we'd practically ripped them off his body last night. I'd waited till he'd fallen asleep before wriggling carefully out of the huddle of his arms, then rifled through his pockets like a common thief to find it. Now I hold it to my lips, like a kiss, and blow the notes that I'd so often heard sing from his own.

And I wait, watching the darkness, tension building in my gut with each empty minute.

Then they come - flickers of light like amped-up fireflies, surrounding me with hushed murmuring. _They obey all royalty_ , Puck had said; I hope that included humans. I issue my request, reiterating and questioning them to be sure they understand. They respond with consternation - if their aggressive twittering is any hint - but I am firm and at last they grow silent, winking at me in a light show of greens and blues and purples, and melt away into the stifling air.

I turn and enter the fortress.

From all directions come the sounds of battle - shouts of outrage, screams of fear, the terrible clash of metal against stone and flesh, the varying timbres of a house and its possessions falling to ruin. I will myself to shut it all out, to take comfort in the knowledge that within these same walls, Puck is fighting, breathing, alive.

The mental map from my first visit still fresh in my mind, I head to the West Wing, where the King's rooms are. As I pass into the light from the wall sconces, I see other shadows loom behind mine and I whip around, fists ready. But it is only Daphne and Red, breathing heavily.

"The dungeons are empty," they report. "So we came back up to wait for you."

We continue into the bowels of the wing. There was no time to explain where we are going but they follow, game to be along for the ride.

The noise of feet - and we flatten ourselves against the wall: a small band of goblin guards hurtles out of the stairwell ahead and rushes in our direction. There is no time to hide, so we meet them head-on with sword and daggers and knees and fists. They fall, and we smear their insides on our clothes and off our weapons as we run. Up the stairs we go, listening for the next time we must defend ourselves. It comes all too soon, and we fight, cramped in the stairwell, using the walls to our advantage as we smash goblin skulls against them, our hands coming away slick.

Finally, we are on the top floor, and we brace ourselves for the personal guards of the royal family, for surely they must be here in full force.

But the hallway ahead of us is strangely empty, weak light from the slowly-rising suns sneaking out of open rooms on either side. I gesture to Daphne and Red and they flank me, watching my back as we inch toward the door to the King's suite.

Which is wide open.

I peek inside, but it seems empty. Not even a guard or a dog moves in it.

The lights are on and I see huddles of bodies lying on the floor, slumped against the wall, thrown over furniture.

"Careful," Red hisses behind me. "Could be a trap."

But when minutes pass and the corpses do not move when we kick them, let alone animate into an ambush, we relax and bend to examine them. They are goblins, and their wounds are messy and ragged, as if they were slashed by claws and teeth, not cut by steel. Even more odd: the bodies are cold, as if they have lain here for some time. But most disturbing of all is that more than half of them are small - they look like children - and the rest seem to be equally harmless - not soldiers or guards - dressed in civilian clothing. Gurdach is not among them.

"What on earth . . .?" Daphne begins. "We fought _guards_ on the stairs. Why guard a room full of _dead_ goblins?"

But I push her and Red toward the door, back the way we came. There is nothing here that we want, and we still don't know where the King is. We run back to the stairs, to leave this floor, but there are more soldiers who mechanically swing their weapons as we hack them down one by one. And the more we kill, the more seem to emerge from the floors below, until we find ourselves once more backed into the King's chambers.

Nothing makes sense, but I am too busy trying not to get killed to puzzle over this.

Until I glance out of one of the windows.

There, below us on the ground, creatures are streaming toward the castle from the hills - hundreds and thousands of them. Even from this high up, and in the remnant darkness of the fading night, I can tell that they are all kinds - goblins mostly, but also winged fairies, trolls, ogres, and others I do not recognize. And, flying in on mighty wings, are three massive dragons, deadly silhouettes against the slowly brightening sky. The King has assembled his army and to say that we are outnumbered is a gross understatement.

And my heart turns cold with dread as I finally understand that we have been lured into the fortress and trapped.

How did they know we were coming?

"No," Red breathes. "No."

Where is Puck's army? Where is Rhogin?

Then, the King's voice sounds from the ground, thrown back by the hills.

"I am here! King of Faerie, I am here!"

And from one of the castle windows, Puck bursts out and floats down to meet him.

Bile rises in my throat.

It is not a scene that inspires confidence: Puck, alone, facing off against Gurdach and his massive, macabre army. I am so tense I feel like screaming.

There is a space of twenty paces between them. Puck, his back to us, calls out something to Gurdach, and the Goblin King spits on the ground and laughs.

Puck speaks again, gesturing with his hands. Gurdach lifts his chin, answering back. And on it goes, for a good minute or two, as we watch, deaf.

"What are they saying?" Red speaks for all of us, frustration thick in her voice.

We shake our heads.

"Surely he's not trying to negotiate?" I ask rhetorically. "The monster has all the cards. And he's not interested in playing."

"Just kill him and be done with it!" Daphne hisses, slamming her fist into her other palm.

"Shhh!" Red hushes us.

For now, something at last is happening.

The Goblin King has thrown back his head in arrogance, pointing toward his fortress. All eyes turn, including Puck's, to see one of the four contingents of the Fae army hovering off the roof, led by their captain. The Goblin King beckons with a flick of his fingers and the captain waves his soldiers down to the ground.

Even from up here, we can tell from his body language that Puck had not been expecting this. He shouts the captain's name - Caelum - but the fairy ignores him. Caelum's men, sensing something amiss, hesitate, wondering at their commander's sudden affiliation with the enemy. Some begin backing higher up in the air, colliding with the ranks behind them. But there are too many of them, and the ones in the rear haven't the time or room to maneuver, struggling instead in the space between earth and sky, confused and chaotic. Caelum lands before Gurdach and the second his feet touch the ground, curls up and falls to his knees.

Cold dread wraps around my heart - I have seen this before, and don't wish to see it another time. I turn away.

My sister and my friend, however, have not, and their eyes are wide and horrified. Even with the captain's armor hiding most of his unnatural metamorphosis, his pain is visible -and audible - for all to behold. As are his wings, which pop off his back and slither to the ground like the wilted petals of a flower past its prime.

I cannot bring myself to look at Red, to see the moment when it dawns on her that this is what had happened to Oriel.

And it is in the seconds I look away that the dragons, on Gurdach's unspoken command, lift their heads and, in a blaze that throws the sky into incandescence and shadows, incinerate a quarter of Puck's army.


	32. Chapter 31

We are still screaming when the dragon fire ceases, leaving charred bodies on the ground and more falling from the air, scattered by the fiery blasts. I force myself to look, to see if there are any survivors, and it is with misplaced relief that I find them among the soldiers towards the back of the airborne squadron, shielded from the inferno by their comrades in front. They are fleeing now, panic making them splinter off from the group, easy targets for a second blast.

But none comes; Gurdach seems content to gloat while Puck trembles - we can see his naked blade shake in his hand - in rage and shock before him.

Caelum himself is rising to his feet, no longer Caelum, no longer Fae.

At least it's apparent now how Gurdach had known we were coming.

Beside me, Daphne is gripping the windowsill with one hand, knuckles white. In her other hand is a wand of dark wood, and I can feel its power like a drug, seductive and beckoning. From the hard set of her pale face, I know she will use its magic at the next mere suggestion of provocation. Red is completely still, fists clenched, her eyes burning with tears.

"We need to get down," I say. "We're useless up here. At least down there, we can watch Puck's back, shield the army, _do_ something!"

Daphne nods, and we hack our way through the goblin guards, not caring that almost as many as fall come from behind to take their places. I reassure myself that it can't go on forever; either we die trying, or else eventually, we'll cut down the last of them.

And we do. Thankfully, the dispensable guards, though numerous, are not skilled. We descend to the courtyard covered in goblin blood, our weapons heavy in our aching arms. We do not reveal ourselves - the surprise would be a costly distraction to Puck and his fighters.

But when we peek around the entryway, it is no longer the stare-me-down we had last seen from the King's chambers.

While we were cutting down the guards, the war we'd been trying to prevent had begun.

And we are outmatched in every way.

On the ground, the scene is even more horrific. Ours is a small army both in numbers and height. The Fae soldiers, while nimble, are completely dwarfed by the hulking ogres and trolls, their wings their only advantage as they zip out of the range of the swings and swipes of the enemy. When they tire - which they surely will - they will be easy pickings on the ground by even the smaller goblins.

But it is the dragons that are doing the most damage, flying around and razing satellite groups of fairies and goblins alike, moving closer and closer to the heart of the battle where the two Everafter kings are dueling.

"Daphne!" I turn to her. "Can you shield our soldiers from the dragons?"

"Not specifically just ours," she mutters, eyes narrowed as she assesses her playing field. "I can . . ."

But I am not listening; I've been watching Gurdach and Puck fight in the distance, and seen Gurdach suddenly feint, running away and giving Puck a wide berth. Something doesn't feel right.

A split second later, I realize what it is.

"Daph! Shield Puck NOW! NOW!"

And she does, throwing her arm forward in a crackle of energy. A dome of blue erupts over Puck just as one of the dragons swoops low and blasts a stream of flame in his direction.

Time freezes as I watch the dragon rise back into the sky, taking its maw of death with it.

Daphne flicks her wrist and the dome dissipates as she exhales and looks at me, eyes horrified.

If I'd missed it . . .

I grit my teeth. I will not think about it.

Gurdach is nowhere to be seen. Puck quickly glances over his shoulder, his face bewildered as he surely wonders where the sorcerer is whose magic had saved him. Then, he is back in the fray, hacking smoothly with his sword as goblin after goblin goes down around him. I watch him for a minute or two, allowing myself that indulgence, a reassurance that he is safe, alive. I want to memorize him as he is: strong and amazing and undefeatable and fearless - yet another layer to him I am just rediscovering.

And fearless he certainly is, even years ago when he was but a boy with a wooden sword. But now that he's grown into his warrior body, he is truly a wonder to behold in battle: deft, skilled and sure as he wields his weapon - a swipe through the midsection of a troll, a backhanded slice that cleaves the head of another from its body and a leap to stab a slavering ogre in both eyes before somersaulting over its head to drive his blade down into the back of its neck.

All in a matter of seconds.

As he maneuvers away from the massive, flailing limbs of his victims crashing to the ground, he sheaths his sword over his shoulder, swings his crossbow around from his back and fires in quick succession into the sky just as a dragon - the same one that failed to roast him earlier - sweeps overhead.

The beast banks and the projectiles pass harmlessly into empty space.

He soars, reloads in mid-air as the dragon circles around, and shoots again, into its pale underbelly.

This time, the dragon recoils and roars, spewing flame as it loses altitude.

Puck, tossed momentarily by the undercurrents from the creature's wings, ducks out of the blazing stream, checks his momentum, folds his own wings and dives. He collides with the side of its head, grabbing one of its horns to keep from rolling off, then fires again, point-blank, into its face. The creature shakes its head, trying to throw him off, even as it flaps its wings in panic and rises haphazardly into the clouds.

Puck disappears with it, and I gaze upward, my heart in my throat, my head pounding and threatening another blackout.

Then, a burst of fire behind the veil of clouds, and the dragon plummets into sight, scales flashing, the spines on its back twisting as it curls and writhes and leaks smoke and flame and mist, all the way down to its earth-shaking landing.

Puck, riding its head on its descent, jumps free before the impact, his armor covered in soot and ash and the blood of his kills. He raises his crossbow over the cloud of dust ballooning around the massive carcass and roars words I don't recognize. His warriors - the ones still fighting on their feet- clearly do, however, because they call back in a united refrain and resume the battle with renewed vigor.

I lose sight of him then, engulfed by the flood of beasts and men as they war on.

Red, who has crept up behind me without me realizing it, nods gravely.

"That boy," she says, "is a total badass."

And, horrific as the situation may be, I find it in myself to smile.


	33. Chapter 32

But now, I must get down to business.

I issue instructions: Daphne should use her magic to shield our soldiers and - where it can be safely done - launch the odd assault. I, with Red covering me, must find the Goblin King and put my plan into action.

"What plan is that?" Daphne asks, eyes glued to the battle as we move to find her a good vantage point from which to monitor the scene.

"I won't go into the details, but it involves me finding the King and getting into his mind."

"Are you insane?" She spits out, then checks herself, "no, don't answer that. I didn't mean, uh. . ."

"I think I know how to beat him. His mind is where it all happens, and that's where we need to attack him. I can do it. I've gotten in before, and this magic thing in me gives me some kind of immunity to it."

"I don't like your plan."

"Not a whole lot of other options, Daph."

She snarls - a very unDaphne sound. "If he hurts you . . ."

"I don't think he will. He'll have other things to worry about. And if he does - well, that's what the elixir is for, right?"

Red interrupts us. "Dragons," she points.

The remaining two dragons are circling overhead, spiraling lower and lower. Daphne turns her face to the sky, pushing us away with one hand. "Go, go. This is good enough. I've got this covered."

I bite my lip, suddenly unwilling to leave her all by herself, unprotected and exposed. But she isn't even looking at me, concentrating instead on the airborne predators, watching to see when to throw out her shields. I hesitate another second, then awkwardly hug her sideways. She laughs - a wild chuckle - less at my sentimentality than for the sheer exhilaration of being here in the thick of the action, doing something powerful.

I run, Red at my side.

Overhead, two small teams of fairies take to the sky, each heading for one of the circling beasts, ready to bring them down.

Before us, the battle spreads over the dusty land - sounds and smells and heat and suffering.

As we pass through the mass of bodies, I cannot help but notice how much everyone looks like everyone else. True, there is a preponderance of goblins - both naturally birthed and unnaturally turned - on the battlefield. But there are also the ones unchanged - the Fae and chimps on our side, as well as the enemy soldiers in their own skin, who obey their traitorous captains for sheer loyalty.

Yet, species differentiation aside, they have no personalities in a war, no particular charms or flaws that might have made them unique individuals in a more peaceful time. Here, a fighter is a fighter is a fighter, one unit in a mass entity with a single purpose, every other aspect of our identity hijacked by our mission to survive and conquer and safeguard the lives of those who mean something to us. Even the weakest among us is iron when called to protect and defend - there is a focus that turns us into machines, dispassionate and efficient.

Unfortunately, the same can be said for the ones who lead the assault, because _they_ are controlled by a monster.

And when, in turn, we have cut each other down, what then?

Even in the victory of the whole, there is still the irredeemable loss of the many.

We run headlong into the chaos, searching for the despot behind this senseless slaughter. Everywhere we turn, the grim, blank expressions of our opponents don't even change as we plough them down. Red, for all her zen quietness, is a menace with her double-ended axe, whose long reach guts would-be attackers before they even come close enough to use their own weapons. When, in a rare moment of calm, we stand back-to-back, assessing our odds against a group of particularly hairy trolls-turned-goblins, I ask her where she'd found the time to learn to use it.

She says, "Tobias. We weren't only meditating, you know. Although his axe was more the woodcutting sort. But it's the same principle."

I tell her I'm impressed. She shrugs and concedes that it's better than being wolf-possessed and tearing out throats with her teeth.

And then we are swinging again, clearing our way in random directions through seemingly-endless bodies. Every now and then, a blue dome swells over isolated sections of the plain, in time to deflect aerial streams of flame. Daphne is keeping us safe and, as time goes by and the domes appear less frequently and eventually stop, I imagine the Fae warriors in combat with the dragons are, too.

We fight on, battling both bodies and thirst, as the suns climb higher in the sky over the sweltering desert. On the ground, without the benefit of an aerial view, there is no way to know the exact location of the Goblin King. I feel the first stirrings of panic and desperation, wondering if my strength will hold out long enough to find him.

Then, suddenly, there he is - standing on a mound of rock, low enough to be partially hidden behind a pair of oversize goblins - evidently turned from much larger creatures - but high enough so that he has a view of the mayhem he has created, and continues to manipulate. I halt and put out an arm to stop Red from running ahead of me. She sees him seconds after I do, and snarls.

"Red," I say, trying to catch my breath, "I need to do this on my own. It's safer. You can't follow me, no matter what happens."

She protests, spewing promises about protection.

"No. I know I am not your Queen, but if I were, this would be a direct order." I grab her shoulder and make her look at me. "Please. Trust me."

She fights me with her eyes, and then drops them and shakes off my hand.

"No matter what, Red. And I need you to stop anyone from interfering." I bend to peer at her face. " _Anyone_. Even my badass husband. _Especially_ him."

"Sabrina," she says, her voice suspicious and afraid.

"I . . ." I begin, and then a hand is clamped on my arm and I am spun around to green eyes that open wide in astonishment before immediately narrowing to slits.

I groan. Trust him to be exactly where I don't want him.

"Unbelievable! Will you never learn what's good for you?"

"Hey, handsome."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'd love to chat, but we're in a fight that you boys started. I'm just here to make up the numbers."

Puck shakes my arm hard, his grip like manacles, and drags me behind some boulders, where we are partially sheltered from the worst of the battle. "This is not funny. You could get killed. You need to go home. I am ORDERING you to go home!"

"Puck," I hiss. "You're making a scene. I'm trying to sneak up on Gurdach. Don't blow it."

He stares at me in disbelief, his jaw actually dropping open. Then he looks at Red, as if for moral support. But Red, to her credit, remains impassive, shrugging instead, which makes him further incensed.

"We have exactly three seconds before someone realizes we're sitting ducks and takes our heads off. I'm flying you home right now. We talked about this! I told you I can't fight knowing you were here needing to be watched, remember?"

"I remember," I say, eyeing Puck and spontaneously changing plans in my head. "But it's probably better if you _don't_ watch, actually. And -"

"Duck!"

We are stunned as we hear a new voice and, on instinct, we obey. A pair of projectiles shoot over our crouched bodies and find their marks in two hulking goblins, arms raised to hurl javelins in our direction. As they fall, knives protruding from their head and chest, we turn to look at our savior.

Rhogin, clad in armor over his human skin and brandishing an assortment of weapons, including more of the wicked daggers he'd just launched, smiles grimly at Puck.

"I find it hard to believe, King of Faerie, that you're not a complete newbie at this," he remarks by way of greeting. "Because why else would you be standing in plain sight, just chatting? You might as well have had targets painted on your backs."

In an usually restrained response, Puck merely nods his thanks, and the Goblin Prince snorts his acknowledgement. As we retreat further into the shelter of the boulders, Rhogin reports that he'd been successful at cutting off Gurdach's reinforcements coming in from the north.

"Where are they?" Puck demands.

"Hiding in the caves."

"But we need them here!"

"I barely managed to release them from his control. If they came here, they'd be so close to him that they'll just slip back under. It's safer for them to stay there where he can't reach them - safer for them _and_ safer for us."

Rhogin finally notices Red and me. He must not have recognized me earlier, mistaking me instead for just another soldier. He frowns and says, "This is really no place for - "

"Thank you!" Puck rolls his eyes, grabbing my arm again. "It's what I've been telling her but she won't listen!"

"Red and I can fight!" I shout at him, then remember my manners. "By the way, Rhogin, meet Red. Red, Prince Rhogin."

The two Everafters glance at each other but their meet-and-greet is interrupted by Puck.

"I'm not saying you can't fight! Of course you can fight. . . normally! But not . . . " he gestures up and down my body.

"What's wrong with her?" Rhogin asks, baffled.

Puck spits out between clenched teeth, "Sabrina has a . . . medical condition. She should be at home resting, not running around, fighting."

"I'm fine," I hiss back.

Rhogin's eyes dart between us and then his eyebrows shoot up.

"Oh!" He smiles. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

Puck and I gape at him before we realize what he means.

"It's not like that," I say at the same time that Puck sags and sighs, "She could drop dead at any moment."

Rhogin remains unruffled. "So can we. Am I the only one here who actually believes this is a real live war?"

Puck rubs a bloody hand over his face, streaking it red and dirty green. "No. She's dying. Like _sick_ dying."

We watch Rhogin's expression shift through shock, pity and sadness, then freeze in sudden understanding.

" _That's_ why you want the elixir."

"Bingo." Puck says flatly.

Rhogin exhales loudly. "You put your kingdom on the line for _her_."

Puck's eyes meet his in a challenge. "She's worth it."

Rhogin glances sideways at me before looking back to Puck, appraising him.

"Well. Who would've believed it? After all this time, the boy has finally met his match. And I thought you made the deal because you wanted to help me stop the end of the world from happening."

Puck glowers at him, but it is half-hearted.

"Who says I didn't? I would've helped you, regardless. I may be a sap - " he glares at me, "- but I'm still King, and this is what kings do when other kings act like they own the world and bully everyone else. You are a snothead, Prince, but you deserve better than your jerkazoid old man. Besides, I never turn down a good battle."

"And you're a fool. I would've _given_ the elixir to you if I'd known. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have found some other way to deal with my father. It was such a long shot, anyway, and Sabrina has a better chance than . . . here, let me . . ."

He reaches behind his breastplate, fiddling with the straps that hold his weapons to him.

I watch these two childhood rivals awkwardly navigate this new dynamic, standing for the first time together without their defenses and hubris. It is as close as they've ever come to being friends, I think wryly. Unfortunately, as groundbreakingly sentimental as this moment is, it isn't getting us anywhere nearer to stopping the abomination that is Rhogin's father, and I open my mouth to remind them.

Just then, the air stirs with the beat of wings as a small contingent of Fae warriors approaches our hideaway.

"Your Majesty!" The one in the lead calls, panting from exertion. "It's the Prince, Sire. . . Prince Mustardseed . . . is down. . . ogre attacked the Queen's sister. . . he broke rank . . . to protect her. Lost his wings. . ."

Puck pales visibly.

"Is he alive?" He barks at the messenger.

"Barely, Sire. He's safe for now. But we don't know. . . Commander Ash doesn't know if . . . He sent us to make sure you make it back, Sire. Just in case."

 _So that Faerie is not left without a ruler._

"And Daphne?" I hear my own voice, small and weak.

"Your sister is unharmed, My Lady."

Tears spring to my eyes in my relief. But I am also wracked with guilt - our presence here has cost Faerie her prince.

I will not let her also lose her King.

Rhogin, who has watched this exchange without a word, places a hand on Puck's shoulder.

At that moment, the ground quakes twice, as the remaining two dragons fall from the sky, one after the other, dead.

The airspace is secured -

\- a sign -

and I seize the diversion and violently twist my wrist out from Puck's grasp.

While he is recovering from his surprise, I scream to draw attention to myself, and run towards the Goblin King.

Puck curses. Red shouts my name. Rhogin lunges to stop us all.

And Gurdach turns, taking us in as we dramatically blow our cover and come hurtling out into the fray.

As if in slow motion, I see him start with surprise, then bare his teeth in a vicious snarl as he waves his sentinels toward me. I sense the eyes of the other creatures he owns - the hundreds and hundreds of them in his army - turn to us as he focuses his attention on the foolish human girl who is important to the Faerie King.

I feign panic, and cower as the huge goblins grab me and haul me back to him. I see his lips move as they form my name, see his eyes light in gloating triumph as he raises them to Puck. But I focus on my task, willing my feet to drag limply in the dirt and fighting the instinct of my body to pull out my sword and lame the bodyguards in two swipes.

"Let them go," I say when I am kneeling before him. "Stop this war. You've lost your Queen and your son and you're killing your own people along with ours. The other Everafter kingdoms aren't going to let you get away with this."

Gurdach is still, watching me. Then his face splits into a grotesque smile, and he speaks calmly, his eyes lifting from mine to Rhogin, who stands several feet behind me.

"My son? Did he tell you that? He can be very charming, and so vulnerable. It's part of his power, you know. But you mustn't feel bad. You're not his first, and certainly not the only one who's fallen under his spell."

I falter.

I'd never been fully sure of Rhogin's loyalties. Puck has always believed he was sincere but Rhogin, for all he's said, is still goblinkind.

And right now, that kind is the enemy.

"Speaking of whom, where _has_ he been all this while?" Gurdach's tone is one of exaggerated curiosity, like a parent who's hidden a surprise in plain sight and is inviting their child to search for it.

Where, indeed, was Rhogin? Was he really diverting the troops in our favor, as he'd said?

I turn to look at him. His face is expressionless as he stares at his father, unblinking; not disputing his words.

My heart sinks in dread. All at once, I feel my stomach bottom out, feel the hopelessness oppress me, heavy as death.

Rhogin has betrayed us.

As I'd suspected from the beginning that he would.

Not only has Rhogin betrayed us, but he never had the elixir, or else never had the intention to trade it in for his father's defeat.

Because he'd never intended to defeat his father.

Because they're family and because they're goblins, and goblins are all the same: deceitful and self-serving and manipulative as hell.

It makes perfect sense.

I was right. Puck was wrong.

And - oh - it is practically a relief to finally be able to believe it, to stop struggling with the conflict that never quite sat well with me. It was a trap all along; now Gurdach has us exactly where he wants us.

And he is going to kill us.

 _If_ he is merciful.

But so what? I don't mind.

I was already dying, anyway.


	34. Chapter 33

_Dying._

 _Something about dying._

 _What was it about dying? I have to remember. It was important._

Puck is shouting something at me, and I blink at him, wondering at his words. He is urging me to remember, saying something about Rhogin being elsewhere trying to intercept the reinforcements, about breaking them out from his father's control. Something about freedom.

 _His father's control. What control?_

Gurdach is speaking again, not at all agitated; almost pitying.

"Queen of Faerie, go home. My war is not with you. You are human, and I have no use for humans. I do, however, want your King. A small matter of politics, you understand. Turn around and go - return to your children and your family."

 _Such grace. Such undeserved mercy. I am so thankful. So relieved._

"Yes," I agree. "Thank you for sparing me."

I stumble to my feet, stretching out my hand to touch him, the benevolent saint that he is.

He recoils from my reach, hissing for a split second before schooling his features into its death mask again.

I retreat in shame.

 _Of course he doesn't want contact with me. He is a deity in whose presence I am not worthy to grovel._

 _Children. What was he saying about family and children?_

 _But Puck is my family. I want him to come home with me._

"Please let him go," I hear my mouth beg.

Gurdach snarls, and my mind boils. Something nags me: a stray thought about children, and mothers, and kindness and mercy.

And dying. It's important, I think.

But it's _hard_ to think - my mind is so foggy. All I know is that I want to be with the mighty, glorious Goblin King forever.

 _Something about mothers._

I concentrate.

It dances on the edge of my consciousness, a mote of a memory, tantalizingly out of reach.

I strain through the fog in my mind.

 _Rhogin and his mother._

 _She was hurt, and he was begging for her life. He loved her. He wanted to protect her. Rhogin_ cared _for his mother._

I stare at the wondrous Goblin King, willing my mind to make the connection. Puck is still shouting behind me, calling my name.

 _What was it?_

Suddenly, it clicks.

 _Gurdach killed her_ , Puck had said.

I hadn't seen it, but I _had_ seen Rhogin's face as he'd begged Puck not to hurt his mother, had seen his anger and contempt when his father had used her and cast her aside without remorse.

I remember Puck's and Mustardseed's own tender relationship with Titania, and how Granny had said you could always tell the goodness of a man by the way he treated the women in his life.

 _The Prince cared for his mother._

 _The King . . ._

 _. . . did_ not _._

 _Rhogin is not the monster;_ Gurdach _is._

And with that conclusion, I feel the power of the Goblin King's suggestions dissolve, leaving my mind throbbing but clear.

I see him as he is.

I remember the battle, why we are here.

I remember why _I_ am here.

 _But I can still change my mind._

All around us, the Goblin King's brainwashed soldiers fight to defend him, every one from the goblins of his own realm, to the military commanders he has stolen from the other Everafter nations and turned to his kind and to his will.

Along with the uncountable ranks under them who have pledged their loyalty and blindly follow their orders, even while they remain in their own skin, so powerful is their monarch's hold over them.

 _They will die to protect him_ , Rhogin had said.

He is untouchable, invincible.

 _No, there is no other way._

So I must continue to pretend just a little longer.

I lunge toward him, seemingly drunken, a devotee unwilling to be parted from her lord, and stumble once more at his feet.

Above me, he jeers, cruel and triumphant. "Look at her! She's offering herself! Well, then, I shall accept. Watch me take her from you, son of Oberon!"

I hear Puck yell and run forward, but the Goblin King is faster. And I let him touch me, let him clamp my head between his filthy hands, let his consciousness violate mine.

Vision after vision after vision of madness and violence and despair and horror flood my mind as I pray for strength, for this to work. I feel my body shudder as the weight of his dark ambition crushes me. And I feel my own magic - the parasite that is my brand of insanity - rising up within me, fighting to protect me, swelling to push back the tide of his unnatural, heinous evil.

 _Not yet. Just a little longer._

I make my hands come up and grab his head.

His face twists and he bares his canines, writhing in my grip, but I do not let go.

I _must not_ let go.

I must not let myself throw him as I'd done before.

 _Hurry. Hurry. Hurry._

 _It's not going to work._

 _He will kill me and it will all be in vain._

 _Where are you? Hurry. Hurry._

And all this while, I can hear _everything:_ the sounds of battle, of creatures dying, of Red wailing, "No, no, no no", of Puck - my beloved Puck, who has ransomed his kingdom for me - screaming, screaming.

 _Hurry. It is time. Please hurry._

And then, they come.

In a swarm of light, I am lifted, airborne, locked together with the tyrant as we rise on hundreds of glittering wings.

I catch a glimpse of Puck's face staring, horrified, at the minions who have always done _his_ bidding, as he pats his pockets and discovers his pan pipe missing, as he realizes what I am doing.

"I'm sorry," I mouth at him, my head exploding. "I love you."

And then I am twenty feet, fifty feet, a hundred feet in the air, even as a second swarm of pixies surrounds Puck and holds him down. No one assails us, not even the ground archers from either army, or the winged fairies - none dare, for fear of missing one of us and harming the other.

Higher we rise. I can no longer see Puck's face.

Faster, higher.

But I can still hear him screaming.

Faster. Higher. _Don't look down. Hold on tight. Don't black out. Not yet._

The noise of the battle below dies away to a soft, dull sound as it is quickly eclipsed by the shrieking of the Goblin King realizing he is thousands of feet in the air. He releases me, and the pain in my head abruptly ceases. But I keep my hold on him, even though it is no longer necessary; we are high enough now that there is nowhere else to go. All around us, the pixies support our weight, a cloud of tiny collaborators against gravity and the cries of our loved ones.

And then we stop.

The pixies twitter, their voices strange in the thin air, so high up where the wind whips them away.

"Do it!" I gasp.

And they drop us.

I expect a million thoughts to run through my head as I fall - my life flashing in front of my eyes - but my mind is completely blank.

No, not completely.

As I look into Gurdach's eyes, watering as the rushing air steals his tears - I continue to see his life, as clearly as if it were my own, running backward like he is regressing through time. Back and back and back - memories, impressions, a spectrum of emotions. And as he un-ages, I feel his madness relaxing its grip on him, lightening; his descent into darkness in reverse, until I am looking at the world through the eyes of a terrified goblin child, cornered in the shadows by Everafter playmates in foreign palaces, taunted and mocked for his face, his simian gait, the way he speaks through fanged jaws. His smiling parents are too occupied establishing diplomatic relations to notice his humiliation, his bruises, his trembling, his painful shyness in the presence of the beautiful children of the kings and queens who had come to visit. Nor do they see how he locks it all inside himself so as not to embarrass them, jeopardize their political agendas, bring shame on the family.

 _Anger sits on hurt._

 _This_ is why he has unleashed damnation on the Everafter world.

 _This_ is why he has taken captives from every species and made them in the image of his own kind.

It is not blind ambition or greed; it is _revenge_.

Oddly, I feel nothing as I hold his secret, literally, in my hands. It is unfortunate timing, this split second between split seconds, suspended between life and death, in which to steward a revelation that I will - just as literally - take with me to my grave.

 _Most_ unfortunate timing.

I release him and his life is wiped from my mind.

He shrieks again, limbs flailing, clutching my clothes, my hair, scrabbling at air as he plummets alone. Strangely detached, I watch him falling, barely aware that I myself also am.

I vaguely register barreling through the pixies, who remain airborne to ensure that our descent is unimpeded.

"Oh, dear," I think.

And that is all, as the ground rushes up to meet me in sudden, expanding color.

And everything is still.


	35. Chapter 34

I am blind.

But, in the darkness, I feel warmth, like sunshine on my skin.

And in the distance, I hear waves - rhythmic, rising, falling, sibilant - as they crash quietly against a shore, recede and repeat. It is a comforting sound, and it evokes memories of happy holidays by the sea, with people I love, during a time when my soul was filled with laughter and joy.

And there is the salty tang of air slightly sticky with spray, just before a playful breeze sweeps it away.

 _I can feel, hear, taste and smell._

 _Where am I?_

"Sabrina?"

I turn, and my vision returns with the sound of my name.

I am on a seashore, barefoot on fine white sand.

Behind me - the turquoise sea, stretching to a horizon that turns into endless sky.

Before me -

"Granny?"

"Liebling!" She is ageless.

Beside her -

"Grandpa?"

"Sabrina."

I stand still, watching them approach, hand-in-hand, smiling like they did in the photographs that hung on her walls; joyful and completely content.

It hits me like a ton of bricks - the weight of missing her. And yet I feel no sadness, only the immensity of the delight at seeing her again, and at the thrill of meeting a grandfather I'd only ever heard stories about.

They waste no time in pleasantries; once they are close enough, I am surrounded by arms, bathed in the scents of those years with her, when I'd rediscovered anew what _family_ meant.

"Look at you, liebling!" Granny exclaims, her German accent caressing her words. "Basil, didn't I tell you she was stunning? Look at her!"

My grandfather beams and extends his hand. "I'm over the moon to finally meet you, girl. Relda tried to describe you, but she didn't do you justice."

"Hi, Grandpa," I say, overcome. I don't know him . . . and yet I do.

"Where are we?" I finally ask, when we have beheld each other long enough in silence.

"Eternity," Grandpa replies. "Home."

"Heaven?"

"You could call it that. It has many places within it, and it's a little different for everyone. Home is the best way Relda and I could describe it -"

"- and I spent the first part of my stay here trying to," Granny interrupts, laughing. "I was determined to give it a name. Basil's been here for much longer, but I'd just arrived, and it was magnificent, and I wanted to have something in our language to . . . explain what it felt like to me."

"Home." I try the word on my tongue and feel what it conveys - security, comfort, belonging, love, happiness, longings fulfilled, favorite people.

 _People._

"Who else is here, Granny? Can I meet them, too?"

She pats my arm, then links hers in mine and we begin walking. Grandpa flanks my other side.

"Not this time, liebling," she says, "you'll see them all when you come to stay."

"I'm not here to stay?"

She exchanges a look with Grandpa, and he speaks in turn.

"I don't quite know how to explain it to you, Sabrina. When we come here, we're here to stay . . . usually. There's a . . . finished-ness about the people who come - it is the right time for them. But with you. . . it's different. You feel connected to the other side still, like there's a cord holding you back; you're here, and yet you're not. And this - " he sweeps his hand toward the gorgeous expanse of blue and white around us, " - this is like a gateway, the waiting room for the real place. It's hard to explain in our old language."

"Old language?"

Granny interprets, "We communicate differently here. Oh, we still use words, but they're deeper, and have more meaning, and everyone understands completely without having to explain anything."

"Why am I here, then, if I'm not staying?"

"Well. . ." Granny says patiently, "you _died_."

Ah, yes. I did.

I realize, with a sense of peace, that my mind is perfectly clear, fully-dimensional, new, free. And not only is there no sign of Bradley, or anyone from my illusion world, I also somehow _know_ , with complete confidence, that I will never see them here.

The magic - that seductive thing that rooted itself uninvited in the fabric of my soul - is gone.

We are quiet for a while, the sound of the surf and the shifting sand filling the spaces between us.

Then, Grandpa speaks. "That was brave, what you did."

A vision of Puck's face flashes into my mind - the last image I had of him as I took off into the clouds - a mask of anguish and panic and wrath and fear, as he'd screamed, first just sounds, then words: _I'm not ready; come back_ , over and over again until I could no longer hear him. Strangely, I don't feel sad at this any more than at having missed Granny.

"Is the Goblin King here?" I ask, suddenly curious.

"We haven't seen him," Grandpa replies.

"Although, to be fair, we weren't looking," Granny adds.

No malice, no serves-him-right in their voices; simply matter-of-fact.

"Mustardseed . . .?"

They shake their heads.

Even the thought of my sweet and gallant brother-in-law - wherever he is now - cannot evoke any sorrow or regret in this strange and peaceful place.

We continue walking and talking as we kick the sand with our toes, as if this were one of many regular visits to see my grandparents at their seaside vacation home during the summer breaks. They give me their news - messages from people I know - and I tell them about Daphne and Red and Mom and Dad and Basil Jr.

"Tobias is getting more frail," I report. "But he doesn't want to move in with Red, even though she offered; insisted, really."

Granny smiles at the mention of her old friend. Grandpa says, "When he finally gets here, I'm looking forward to shaking his hand and thanking him for taking care of you all those years when I wasn't there."

"Will he come here, then? Will he be allowed to. . .?" There is no filter between my brain and my mouth here, yet - just as strangely - I feel no embarrassment about it. "What about . . ."

 _The things he's done? The lives he's taken?_

Granny looks into the distance.

"I'm still surprised," she muses, "by who's here and who isn't. It's not at all what I'd thought."

And that was that; the conversation flip-flops back to the dead and I find myself once more collecting love notes to convey to the living.

"Seven says to tell Morgan that she was right about his brothers. . . "

"Geppetto sends his love to Pinocchio. . . "

. . . and on and on.

Then, finally: "Briar says to tell Jake that she knew about the ring and that she would've said yes. But now he must ask someone else, when he is ready."

I nod. I know how she feels.

Then, a new thought hits me.

"My . . . our baby. Is our baby here, too?"

"Yes, he is. We've met him."

"It's a boy?"

"Yes, and he looks just like Puck."

My heart breaks.

"But he doesn't have a name yet," Granny continues. "We just call him liebling."

In spite of not being able to feel sadness here, I sense a tug on the inside, an aching need for this little boy who is just like the one I've left behind. My heart swells with the deepest, sharpest love I've ever felt, and I gasp for breath.

"Tell him . . . tell him his name is Oriel, and that we can't wait to see him."

Granny smiles. "He'd like that."

I sigh, deep exhales to calm my soul that suddenly, acutely, desperately misses Puck more than I've ever missed him. And although there is no sorrow, I feel the great weight of it on my heart.

As if they sense it, too, my grandparents look at each other and ask me, "Are you going back?"

"I can decide that?"

Another shared glance between them, then Granny allows, " _You_ can."

 _I have a choice._

If I stay, I will meet my son. _Be_ with him. Find answers to all those possibilities that were closed to me when he'd died, so new in my body that it hadn't even announced him to the world. I won't have to deal with Bradley-who-never-existed-yet-is-real-to-me. Or Marian, or any part of that twisted, counterfeit reality, because my mind is whole here. I will be with Granny, whom I've missed, and Grandpa, whom I can spend eternity getting to know.

But I will not have my family - Mom, Dad, Daphne, Basil.

I will not have Puck.

And eternity is a very long time to spend without his voice, his smile, his arms.

Not to mention the fact that he'd kill me himself if I didn't return.

The thought makes me smile.

It's kind of a no-brainer.

"I'm going back. I made a promise. There's a certain fairy waiting, who can't find his own shoes without me."

"Good." Grandpa winks at me. "We guessed we wouldn't be taking any prisoners, anyway."

But Granny hugs me tightly, whispering how much she loves me, vowing to take good care of everybody on her side of forever, and making me promise to take care of those on mine.

As she releases me, she says, "And tell Puck I love what he did with the restaurants! But that spaghetti could use a touch more rhubarb."

Then they step back, letting me go.

"How?" I ask. "How do I get back?"

There's no tunnel of light to walk through, no trod to slip along to an alternate realm, no door to open back to the land of the living, not even a seam between worlds, a brink that separates Here from There.

"You just choose, Sabrina," Grandpa says gently.

Oh.

As easy as that.

So I say, "I want to go home."

Then the light and sea and sky around me recede, before I realize that it isn't them - it is _me_ , moving through dimensions. As it all disappears, I feel this place fading in my mind, as if it were a memory of something important and beautiful that I once had but can't quite capture any longer.

And then it is the darkness overlaid with brightness, veiled and indistinct, that reminds me of a poor blindfold shutting out vision but not light. For a little longer, I hold on to the image of Granny and Grandpa standing with their arms around each other, smiling and waving.

Then they are gone.


	36. Chapter 35

**A/N: Friends! I promise you I'm not stretching out my updates just to be mean or extend the suspense or something equally cunning; I've had a busy week and weekend, and these last few chapters (yes - these are the last) weren't as publish-ready as the earlier ones. So I've had to re-read them, and tweak a few awkward parts, and then the tenses were funny, and whatever. This installment, for instance, had (or maybe still has, I can't tell anymore; all the words are blurring together before my eyes) a couple of very bizarre paragraphs that I couldn't seem to fix.**

 **Enough about me and my editing woes. Here is the next chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

This is not the plain where I'd died.

I am not surrounded by bloodstained weapons and nameless bodies.

Nor even anxious loved ones, eagerly awaiting my recovery from a spell.

I am alone.

And this is my old bedroom in Granny's home, the one that Daphne had always said looked like a dollhouse.

I am on a bed. Next to me is a small nightstand, with a get-well-soon bouquet of flowers, slightly wilted - as if they have been sitting there a while. Somewhere, I hear a clock ticking.

I can tell by the fading, melancholic light coming in through the window that it is evening.

It is the same window that Tobias had once boarded up to stop Puck's pixies from coming in to hurt us.

The same window out through which I'd snuck countless times on shenanigans with Daphne and Puck, to save our grandmother, my parents, the world.

The same window where, after being away for a year and a half, Puck had hovered that fall evening, throwing acorns to say Did You Miss Me, while I'd pulled him in and kissed him to answer Yes, Fool, I Did.

I lie for a while, trying to collect myself. Then I slowly sit up, letting my head spin from the effort. For a moment I worry that I am still sick, that the magic still owns me, but I realize I feel the same as I had on that seashore - lighter, clearer, every thought truly mine.

The spinning stops - it was really just the result of having lain for a while.

Or from dying; it's hard to tell.

I stand and head out through the door. I hear sounds coming from the kitchen below, and I walk down the stairs. I see them before they notice me - Mom, Dad, Daphne, Red and Puck, whose hair has grown back to almost what it used to be. I am struck by this odd picture of my family: a reformed child psychopath, the immortal King of Faerie finally grown up, and the three humans who'd inherited them from Granny Relda, all sitting together under the same roof. I watch them for a moment: was it really the Grimms that had taken them in, or was it they who'd invited us into their world? It seemed as if we were forever standing on the brink of each other's realities before my grandmother had held out her hands and helped us cross over.

They are having dinner, although nobody seems to really be eating much. I suddenly have a strong desire to play a prank on them, so I sneak down as quietly as I can, avoiding the last step which still creaks after all these years. I duck behind the doorway to the kitchen, force the grin off my face, take a deep breath, and step into the room.

"So you guys started without me? I hope you saved me something, because I'm famished."

Five faces turn to stare at me. It takes all my self control not to explode with laughter. I lower myself into the empty seat between Daphne and Puck, and pull a napkin onto my lap.

"What?" I say, acting nonchalant. "I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks."

Puck springs to his feet, his chair falling over in his haste, his eyes wide.

"You're alive," he says at last.

"Yeah, so? Being dead was getting kinda old, so I thought I'd . . ."

He shoves me, furious. My own chair skids backward.

"You stole my pipes!" He seethes, jaw clenched. "You turned my minions against me!"

I hadn't expected that, honestly.

Even if I'd probably deserved it.

"And you made me _watch_!"

"Yeah, well, you'd have . . ." I begin, but strong arms are suddenly around me as I'm yanked out of my chair and crushed in a hug. I breathe in the smell of Puck - a little stronger than usual; he probably hadn't had a bath in all the time I'd been dead - and he is so familiar, so safe, so real. The stubble on his jaw scratches my cheek as he buries his face in my hair, trembling and breathing against my ear in choking gasps.

Then we are jostled as Daphne joins the huddle. And then Mom, who puts her arms around all of us, muttering quietly, "Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank God. Thank God."

From among the tangle of arms, I peek out at Red, sitting quietly, her lips curving in the smallest grin.

Next to her, I see Dad, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving as he exhales over and over. Finally, he lifts his eyes and looks at us. I smile at him, but I have begun to cry, as has he, and neither of us moves a hand to stop the tears.

* * *

Puck and I are alone in my old bedroom. After we'd abandoned whatever was left of dinner and adjourned to the living room, I'd told them about Granny and Grandpa. We'd called Uncle Jake and I'd snuck away to give him Briar's message in private. He'd listened without a word, and then sighed.

"By the way, sorry for not being there when you woke up. It wasn't like it was your funeral, you know. I was just waiting to get The Call - the one to say you were undead."

"Or you were busy with Seraphina."

"Puck told you?"

"Actually, it was your twitter feed."

"Dangit." There is silence on the line, and then, "Are you okay, 'Brina?"

"Er, I'm not dead anymore, so I guess. . . yeah."

He'd laughed, and then, "No, I meant - are _you_ okay? Do you know what you want now . . . who . . .?"

I love how Uncle Jake always just _got_ it, got _me_.

The events of the past weeks had returned to me then, crystal clear, _pure,_ the bad mixed in with the good. Eating pastries. Bloodied swords. Hotel rooms and car rides. Dragon fire and megalomaniacs. Conversations on the roof. Cradling a dead fairy in my arms. Coffee and caramel. Hand-holding and shoulder-shoving and flying in the moonlight. Vows and breathless kisses. The sound of Puck's scream in my ears as I'd left him for the last time. And how, even then, I'd wanted to remember what he'd looked like, forever, in case I never came back.

I'd told Uncle Jake _yes_.

Then I'd returned to the family. Puck had crowed when he heard what Granny had to say about his restaurants.

"Rave reviews all the way from paradise! Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrrrrrriiiiiived!"

Everyone had questions, and they'd let fly, one after another, as if they'd been afraid that if I'd stopped talking, I'd vanish like a mirage.

From Red, however, there'd been only one.

"What's it like - heaven?" She'd asked quietly, when at last there'd been a lull in the exchange.

I hadn't known how to answer. Not because I'd felt that I should keep it a secret from anyone who hadn't been granted a sneak preview as I had, but because I didn't know. I hadn't an impression of the place itself. It was only of the people I'd met, and the ones I hadn't, but whose presence I'd sensed in their messages and their love for me and others they'd left behind. I'd returned with the feeling that, rather than having had closure after a life well lived, they'd seemed to be filled with the vigor and newness of a life just beginning.

I'd tried to describe this in words to Red, fully aware that she'd been thinking of lost opportunities and regrets and unspoken goodbyes. She'd nodded, and didn't speak after that.

I hadn't mentioned Oriel- _my_ Oriel; I'd wanted to save that for just Puck.

And now, after the rest of the family had gone to bed in various degrees of euphoria and exhaustion, I take his hand and sit beside him on my old bed. We are quiet for a while. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he is looking at me, hasn't turned his gaze away for a single moment. But when I turn to look right at him, he breaks the contact.

"Hey," I begin.

He stares at his feet, grimly determined not to look up.

"I'm sorry I stole your pipes."

"I didn't . . . I couldn't save you." He mumbles it so quietly to the floor that I almost miss it.

"That was never part of the plan."

"Yeah, but . . . " He hesitates, and then the words come gushing out of him in a torrent. "I kept thinking about that time when you fell off the water tower and I couldn't save you then, either. But you had that tail, and you were okay, and that was when I knew that if anything happened to you, I'd . . . I couldn't . . ."

He scrubs at his eyes.

"Puck . . ."

He turns those eyes on me now, red-rimmed and furious. "Don't _ever_ do that again."

"Never."

He nods, composed once more. Then, "I kissed you. Every day."

"What?"

"While you were dead. I kissed you, to try to wake you up. You know, like when I ate that stupid poisoned apple and you woke me up with a kiss. I knew this was different but I _had_ to try . . . just in case it worked."

He looks so vulnerable sitting there, swallowing and chewing on his lower lip, that my heart explodes.

I nudge his shoulder. "I think it worked."

He glances at me sideways, his eyes still haunted, but a smile is beginning.

More silence. So much still left to say.

"So . . . what happened after I um . . . crash landed?"

"Crash landed. . .!" He mutters under his breath, ending with a particularly rude word. "Everyone stopped fighting to watch. Gurdach landed first. And then you. You . . ." His throat bobs. "It was hard to look. But there was all this black stuff coming out of you - your nose, your eyes, everywhere. It just sank into the ground, like filthy water, and disappeared. And then the army - Gurdach's army, I mean - all dropped their weapons, and looked as if they were waking up from a long sleep, they were so confused. Gurdach had had them completely brainwashed. Anyway, just like that, the war was over. And Rhogin - Gurdach had him under his control, too, in those last minutes, you know; he couldn't move a muscle - he recovered, too, and whipped out his elixir, which he'd been carrying with him the whole time, and gave it to you."

"And?"

"Nothing happened. He took the stopper off, and nothing came out. He just held it under your nose like smelling salts, and you lay there, dead as a doornail, covered in bits of that black gunk. I was about to rip him apart with my hands right there, but he said to wait, that sometimes it took a while."

"How long?"

"A week."

I inhale sharply. My meeting with Granny and Grandpa had felt like an hour, at the most.

"Anyway, we got you home to Faerie, and Gossamer said it didn't look good - I mean, I think you broke every bone in your body; how was the elixir going to fix that? But then, after three, four days, and you didn't even start to smell or anything, we wondered if maybe you weren't, you know, _completely_ dead. Or maybe something crazy was happening inside your body. Gossamer said to take you back to Ferryport Landing - maybe Bunny could help somehow, seeing as it was _her_ mirror that did this to you. So here we are. We've been just sitting around since, waiting."

"Mustardseed. . . is he . . .?"

Puck smile widens at last, and my heart soars with wild hope.

"He's okay. He was in a lot worse shape than me when the jabberwocky took _my_ wings off, but we got him back home in time. Gossamer put him in a cocoon. He should be out any day now."

I grin suddenly as a pure, untampered memory jumps into focus.

"Who did he spray?"

Puck shudders dramatically.

"Me."

"Awwww."

He smirks. "And Marshmallow."

"Cocoons can spray _two_ people?"

"Apparently, my insufferable control-freak of a brother found a way to. I got the brunt of it, but I'm pretty sure Marshmallow got more than a few drops herself. He must not trust me enough, that ingrate - that's why he got himself a backup."

"So . . . _Daphne_?"

We stare at each other with wicked delight and are, for a moment, gleefully silent, enjoying the implication of the Fae Prince's choice.

"What happened to Rhogin?" I eventually continue my questions. "Is he back home?"

"Yeah. He's King now, of course. Oh, by the way, he sent you the flowers in your room. Says he's sorry he couldn't stop by for a visit, but that he would, once he's got some kind of new laws in place and cleaned up the mess Gurdach left behind."

Such an old-fashioned gesture, and so typical of Rhogin. I'll have to write him an old-fashioned thank-you card back, with a royal seal and everything. I feel my heart warm to him, and not just because his human alter-ego is so unfairly swoonworthy. For all the alpha-male nonsense that he and Puck have between them, there's actually a lot of real good in him. Besides, if I'm being honest, I feel a little guilty that I'd let my prejudices color my trust in him. And I'm also deeply sympathetic - he has a long road ahead of him to rebuilding his realm, not to mention overcoming the generational curse - if Gurdach's twisted psyche offered any hint - that he's inherited along with his dysfunctional kingdom.

Yes - in spite of having his future handed to him on an earthen platter, the new King of Goblins, too, is standing alone at his own crossroads, on the edge of a brink he must choose to cross over to avoid the mistakes of his father before him. It occurs to me that Rhogin, for all his untouchable otherwordliness, might actually need a friend. Someday, when our kingdoms are quiet and peaceful again, we'll have to get together and catch up.

If nothing else, I owe him big time for my life.

"What?" Puck asks, glaring suspiciously at my smiling face.

I continue grinning, tempted for a moment to tease him, before I remember that he'd just been through hell and back for me. So instead, I link my arm in his and lay my head on his shoulder.

"Just thinking about the huuuuuge thank-you card I should probably send to Rhogin."

Puck rubs his cheek against my hair.

"Yeah. I bet he'll be glad for any mail that isn't demanding something or other. Apparently, his people have taken to sending him letters urging him to start a new royal family since, you know, he's the only one left now that his parents and siblings and half-siblings are all dead. He's been texting me some of the funnier ones: find a wife (or ten), spawn a hundred baby goblins, hold a bride selection contest. Some of the more lovestruck females have even offered themselves as concubines."

"Ah, matchmaking, goblin-style. Poor Rhogin. He must've thought you'd be sympathetic, having been forced along that same route once upon a time."

"Actually, I think the texts were to pay me back for rubbing our marriage in his face when we were in London. He knew, by the way."

My face must give away my surprise, because he elaborates. "That we were married. I mean, come on! An Everafter king getting hitched? And to a _Grimm_ , no less? Even without the internet, everyone in the realm knew! And yes, we'd invited his family, but they'd turned us down, and not even politely. You'd think that even though Gurdach hated us, he'd at least have let someone come as an act of goodwill. But he was a nutcase - what can I say?"

"What - so in London, Rhogin was just playing along? And making me out to be the fool?"

"No. It wasn't like that. He also knew - everyone did - about our falling out; you know - that the Queen had left Faerie and was estranged from the King and all that. So when he saw us together, he assumed, as I'd hoped he would, that we had either just made up or were trying to. Which, if you know Rhogin, translated to a fun challenge to get his fingers into and see if he could lure you over. What he didn't know was that you were also dying from the magic inside you, and a few screws shy of totally mental."

"So that's why he said, at the end of it, that you'd won that round."

"Oh, he did, did he? Excellent." Puck rubs his hands together in glee. "Take that, scumbag!"

"Still, I think he can't be enjoying all the social engineering by his court."

"He should be glad! I always knew the poor bugger couldn't get himself a date without his entire kingdom organizing it for him."

"Unlike us, who had to live in the same house every day to figure out we weren't enemies."

"Hey! I was clearly a good catch; you were the one too stupid to see."

I laugh. "Well, when the next generation of fairy and goblin offspring gets together for playdates, we are gonna have to set some strict rules. Really strict rules."

"Ha! Totally. Like 'No kidnapping each other's countrymen and turning them into walking zombies.' "

"I was thinking more along the lines of of 'No killing off your parents.'"

"Or 'No plotting mass invasion on each other's kingdoms.' "

"Nah, he already promised me that."

Puck pulls away and eyes me unhappily.

" _Promised_ you? When did he . . . why . . . what's going on between you two?"

"Chill, Puckster. In London, when he told me about the elixir, I'd said I wasn't thrilled that he had a weapon of potential mass destruction at his disposal. And he swore not to ever invade us."

"Hm." Puck frowns, not entirely convinced.

"Puck." I cup his cheek. "I am, and have only ever been, in love with _one_ Everafter king, and he's right here in this room."

I feel, rather than see him relax, as he says, "Okay."

Seconds pass, during which we stare at our intertwined fingers.

"So," I break the silence. "It appears that I've saved the world again. And admit it: it was much, much better than a meteor speeding to earth, _and_ resulted in far, far smaller collateral damage."

Puck glares and pokes me in the shoulder. "Just so you know, I haven't forgiven you for making me watch you die. Just because you've returned from the afterlife, all chipper, doesn't mean I'm not harboring bitterness and resentment about the actual _dying_ part."

"You're going to harbor bitterness and resentment for the rest of your life?"

"Also," he ignores my question, "after watching you drop like a rock, I'm revising my preferences for Best Ways To Die."

"Oh?"

"I've decided that dramatic is way overrated. I'm rooting for going peacefully in my sleep. With you. Together. Simultaneously."

"Ah, yes, far less bitterness and resentment that way."

"Exactly."

"And since we both arrive at the pearly gates at the same time," I postulate, "we get to continue bickering right where we left off the night before."

"Assuming they let me in."

I chuckle, imagining Puck standing before the gatekeepers of heaven, defending the long list of tricks he'd played at the expense of the universe. But I also remember that Granny had talked about how some of her fellow denizens of the afterlife were not at all whom she'd expected.

"I think you'd be surprised." I smile.

He huffs cynically, as if conceding the mercy of paradise somehow diminishes the potency of his pranks.

Another rest between words; comfortable.

It is time to tell him.

"It . . . it's a boy." I stumble for a moment over whether to use the present or past tense.

I see from the way his face changes that he gets it right away.

"You met him."

I shake my head. "Granny said I couldn't . . . or that I only could meet . . . everyone . . . when I'd be staying. They've been calling him 'liebling' because he hadn't a name yet. So I told her to name him Oriel because . . . you know. She said he looks just like you."

Puck swallows. I wait for the cocky, arrogant remark about perfect genes but it doesn't come. In fact, he seems to have lost his desire to speak at all, so after a moment, I continue.

"Anyway, they somehow knew I wasn't there to stay . . . yet. Apparently, the elixir must have had something to do with it - tied me to the living so I couldn't quite cross over."

"Why not? Too many sins that they had to kick you out?" I am relieved to hear the teasing tone return to his voice.

"Nah. You can choose whether to cut that tie and stay, or come back. I don't think Bunny knew that, or Rhogin. Maybe that was why some of their experiments lived and some didn't. If Rhogin had used the elixir on the dead captain after all, and the captain hadn't wanted to continue living again, it'd have been a waste of the last dose. And since it's all gone now, we'll never really know."

Puck contemplates this, staring at me. "So you chose to come back, huh?"

"Yup."

"But you had to leave the Old Lady, and your grandfather. And you didn't get to see . . . our son."

I shrug. "I didn't see a Starbucks along that beach, either. And since I knew one fairy who made pretty darned good coffee back here, I thought. . . well . . ."

I sneak a glance at him, and catch him still watching me.

"Besides, I thought that maybe you might miss me if I stayed. I mean, I was already missing you, and _I_ was in paradise. So I chose to come back. I chose _you_."

He keeps staring, and then a slow smile spreads across his face and he squeezes my hand. I stare back, taking in everything - the unshaven jaw and shaggy ingrowing hair, the bloodshot eyes, the slightly rank odor about him.

I love him.

I love every single bit of every single flaw of this beautiful boy.

I tear my eyes away from him, just to prove to myself that I can, and stretch, looking around me, at my old room immortalized in memories. It looks so . . . _normal_.

"So . . . this is happily ever after, huh?" I muse.

"Looks like it. Why? Were you expecting to be swept off your feet by some prince to become queen of some faraway land?"

Oh, the irony.

I laugh. "Pretty sure I've been there and done that."

"Hard act to follow." He agrees.

"No, this is good. _I'm_ good."

More silence.

Then he grows serious. "Are you really okay? Do you remember . . . everything?"

"I still don't have my memories back. I thought maybe they'd return after the evil magic thing died, but no. I think they're really just lost forever. Red says it's the same with her - not that she died, I mean. Maybe when you lose your mind for a time, it's a black hole even after, and sometimes other things fall into it. What a mess, huh? But you know what? I decided it didn't matter. You'll just have to help me figure out what happened in those years and make more new memories. And I want you in every single one of them."

" 'Kay," he promises.

"That said, I'm still bummed that I can't even remember us ever being married. Although, from the sound of it, it might have been more "for worse" than "for better." "

"Oh, I don't know about that," Puck says, his grin turning mischievous. "I definitely remember there being a lot of For Betters."

I shake my head. "What - more pranks?"

"I wouldn't call it that exactly," he says wickedly. "We used to make out _all day_. And forget meals."

I laugh. "Nice try, buster. Not even realistic."

He smirks in reckless defiance, his voice lowering to a whisper. "And we'd often start like this." He slides his hand behind my neck and draws my face to his.

"Happy happily ever after," he murmurs into the space between our lips.

Suddenly, realistic seems overrated.

I sigh against his mouth and pull him closer, marveling at _us_ : the girl who chose earth over heaven, flesh over phantoms, present over past, and the boy who made it all worth it - the one I'd continue to choose, crossing every brink, every day for as long as I live; finally together, hearts racing at the future, at the _possibilities_.

I step over and meet him.


	37. Chapter 36

From: Her Majesty

Queen of Faerie

To: His Excellency

King of Goblins

Your Royal Highness,

Thank you for the flowers. Were they from your gardens? They were extraordinarily beautiful and unlike any I have seen in our world. Please give my compliments to your gardeners! I congratulate you on your coronation and am sorry that I was not present to witness it. I would have cheered for you, for your people are truly blessed to have you.

I offer my deepest condolences for the loss of your family, in particular, your mother the Queen, who meant the world to you. Please know that Puck and I - and Faerie - are upholding you in our thoughts and are your friends and allies as you rebuild your kingdom and usher in a new era of peace and prosperity.

With warmest regards,

Sabrina Grimm-Goodfellow.

* * *

 _From: Rhogin_

 _To: Sabrina_

 _My lady,_

 _Welcome back to the land of the living!_

 _Thank you for your thank-you card. It was a delightful surprise - I am thrilled that the art of penmanship is still alive in some parts of the world today. In support of that wonderful mode of communication, shall we continue to keep our correspondence offline, for as long as our schedules permit?_

 _I am glad that the bouquet was to your liking. I regret that I have been unable to visit in person, but such are the pressing needs of my kingdom that I seem to be required at every committee meeting and consultation with vendors, so much so that I have entertained the idea of firing my entire staff and starting anew with people who actually have minds of their own. You would think that after having had their wits finally returned to them, the court would be eager to use them, and use them with relish, but apparently my father - curse his soul - has done more lasting damage to his own court than can be healed in a day (or millennium)._

 _Regarding my coronation, I must make clear that you were not judiciously excluded from the guest list. Rather, I elected not to have a formal ceremony at all - if my bumbling staff could not decide on the color of the drapes without multiple consultations with me, how much more of a nightmare would be their pulling together of an event like a coronation. Imagine the number of focus group sessions that would entail! Instead, I put the crown on my own head, despatched a cleaning crew to get the palace in some semblance of order, set up a triage center in the dungeons for the wounded, and spent the next few days out on the killing fields, knee-deep in corpses. Not the most glorious way to begin one's reign, but we do what we must. Pomp and splendor and feasting will have to take a raincheck, as the saying goes._

 _I have much to say to you when we do - finally- meet in person, Sabrina. Your and Puck's friendship mean more to me than I can say. Incidentally, in case you had any concerns, please be reassured that I have no intention whatsoever of wielding the elixir's influence over you - if you recall, one side effect was the beneficiary being in the power of the benefactor. I still feel deeply wretched that I withheld the elixir at all when your constitution was so gravely compromised._ _All's well now, of course, but had I known, I'd have gladly given it to you instead of trying to use it to deal with my father. As I'd said, it was such a long shot and yours was clearly the greater - and nobler - need._

 _Yours with great remorse and resolve,_

 _Rhogin._

 _P.S. I must insist - again - that we go by first names and drop the ostentatious titles. I have it on good authority that you, too, dis-prefer the scraping and bowing that, unfortunately, comes with the job._

* * *

From: Sabrina

To: Rhogin

Dear Rhogin,

Re: ostentatious titles - I couldn't agree more. Out they go! And I'm also going to write like this, if you don't mind. I'm all for formal speech, but if we're going to be friends, let's get this straight: friends don't talk like a prayerbook. That thank you card took me three hours to write because I had to think so hard to get the phrasing just so. I'm aware that it's how you voluntarily speak, so forgive me if I sound uncouth, but here's the bottomline: you're likely going to get far more letters from me if I can write them in normal language. Okay?

Now that that's out of the way, here is fair warning: there are some serious things in this letter.

First, I want to say how sorry I am that you had to pick up the pieces after the war all on your own. Is there anything we can do to help? Just say the word, and we'll come. Initially, we'd stayed away to give you your space to be with your court, but I realize that that might not have been the most helpful. So, whatever you need - resources, manpower, (or womanpower), and anything else - we'd be honored to give it.

I was also very sad to finally understand what took place in your father's rooms on the night of the battle. Puck has explained it to me. It makes it that much sadder that they were your half-siblings and that it was their own father, in his madness, who did it. I can empathize with how your people desperately want to quickly re-establish the royal family, even if their suggested methods are a little impractical. But it doesn't work that way, does it - simply replacing loved ones? My heart goes out to you and your people.

I meant what I said in my earlier letter, Rhogin: that you are good for your people. Just before your father died, I had the chance to look into his mind, which made me understand him a little more. I thought of waiting to tell you in person, but I think writing it all here might be better, so that you can take in as much or as little as you want, and revisit it when you need to.

I believe that what I saw in his mind were some of your father's early memories. From them, I gathered that he'd been bullied as a child for who he was - other Everafter children made fun of him because he was a goblin, because he didn't look like them. There were many different memories of those, spanning his childhood and the later years of his youth. Some even took place in the palace, carried out by the children of the Everafter guests of his parents. As he grew older, it continued, but differently; no longer just childish taunts. He felt persecuted and believed that no one defended him. His parents - your grandparents - were too busy to notice, or didn't bother if they did. Over time, he internalized that hatred, turned it on himself, and wanted vengeance on the world for making him feel that he - and goblinkind - were inferior.

I couldn't tell whether or not those events truly happened; these were his thoughts and memories, after all. But in his mind, they were very real, and he was desperate to avenge them. It made me think of how a person ultimately has the choice to be good or not, but the road to that decision is very seldom straight. Or easy.

I wanted to tell this to you in the hope that it might help you understand your father a little better. He's still a criminal, and did unspeakable evil, but it stemmed from his powerlessness and wretchedness. No one should have had to experience what he did, especially not a child. I don't know if he deserves your forgiveness, but maybe he at least he deserves our pity.

Also, paint it any way you will, but the fact is that I murdered your father. I know that "I'm sorry" will never cut it, no matter how you'd felt about him, but I truly am sorry. I'm not proud of what I've done, even if he needed to be taken out of the picture so the world could be safe. I wish there'd been another way. I wish he could have been redeemed.

Finally, thank you for saving my life. Someday I will tell you about that, too, if you are interested and, if we have the time between your focus group meetings and - in my case - mediating petty claims among my people.

Your friend,

Sabrina

P.S. I have to confess that up till the point when you produced the elixir - not that I'd have seen it, being dead and all - I didn't even believe it existed. I'm glad I was wrong.

P.P.S. I personally think how you began your reign rocks - there is no nobler king than one who works alongside his people.

* * *

 _Dear Sabrina,_

 _Thank you for your letter, and especially for what you said about my father. Goblins have been discriminated against for centuries, and this is nothing new. We have always been aware that we are un-beautiful, un-magical, and have no particular special physical abilities. Even now, we are aware of how others perceive us, and try to present our best selves to them and hide the parts of us that we'd rather they didn't see. We have lived with it, made the best of it, and excelled in other areas to compensate._

 _What's new is that it happened to my father, delivered by fellow nobles, while my grandparents did nothing about it. I'd always believed that a person can endure most wrongs if they have someone to defend them, to make it clear that right is chosen, that justice is served ultimately. I suspect that, in my father's life, the people who should have been his advocates chose other things over him - the approval of strangers, perhaps. I am sorry that you should have had to witness him in his weakness and shame, but I am grateful that you shared it with me. I hope to someday forgive him and move on - but it is all still raw now and, in my mind, I cannot help seeing my mother's face when she died by his hand._

 _It is I who must apologize about my father's death. It rankles me that you had to be the one to deliver it. It should have been me that has to bear the stain on my conscience; guilty though he was of so many crimes, it is still a terrible thing to take a life. I hold nothing against you. Thank you for your courage in doing it, and know that things will be better for my kingdom because of it. I will make it count._

 _There are times when I am gripped by the irrational fear that I might someday become my father - not because I have his ambition or his bitterness, but because I am his son and have, for all my life, lived in his shadow and unconsciously learned his ways. I hope against this daily, for my sake and for the sake of my people. They deserve so much better than what he gave them._

 _Rhogin_

 _P.S. Forgive this late reply. I have been up to my eyeballs in minutiae - if it's not the color of the dining room drapes, it's the topiaries in the atrium, or the bloodlines of our breeding mares in the stables. I really have more pressing matters to focus on, but there are so many needs, and not enough chains of authority- my father destroyed them all when he leveled the entire kingdom under the control of a single monarch. I am slowly setting up an organizational structure, but it is taking more time than I'd expected. We are literally starting from scratch._

* * *

Dear Rhogin,

You are not your father. Whether or not you'll make a fantastic king is something you'll have to choose yourself, and which only time can verify, but you're not him, and never need be. I, for one, believe in you. If you like, Puck and I will be your watchmen, and if we sense you crossing over to the dark side of the force, we will be happy to come after you and kick your behind back to the light. You're welcome to do the same for us. In fact, we'd appreciate it if you did.

Sabrina

P.S. I don't have a green thumb and I have no insight into the reproductive lives of horses, but I commiserate on the drapes. And don't get me wrong - you're a wonderful leader to care about your people but you, my friend, need to delegate. I have a stellar recommendation for an interior designer, who incidentally also happens to be a fengshui expert. She's a family friend and her material of choice is natural wood. But don't worry - she won't turn your castle into a gigantic log cabin; her work's been featured in all the major international style magazines and she really does have a good eye for things. Let me know?

* * *

 _Dear Sabrina,_

 _You are a lifesaver! Yes, please send over your fengshui expert, if your world can spare her for a week, maybe a fortnight. Tell her to name her price - half the gold in my vault, irrevocable political amnesty, my hand in marriage, anything - if it means I don't have to approve another fabric sample ever again. Consider your life debt to me paid in full, and then some!_

 _Rhogin_

 _P.S. What does Puck think of us corresponding?_

* * *

Dear Rhogin,

Re: P.S. : Why? Is this more of your territorial alpha-male garbage?

S

* * *

 _Dear Sabrina,_

 _Re: Re: P.S. : On the contrary, I am merely concerned that he might think more of this than it is._

 _By the way, may I offer formal congratulations on your marriage to Puck (I regret my absence at the actual event years ago - the result of my father's boycott) and your recent reconciliation with the same? As I understand it, you had your addled mind to thank for your unwitting marital waywardness. Or, perchance, that Puck still has severe personal hygiene issues?_

 _Rhogin_

* * *

Dear Rhogin,

If you think that writing letters is far too clandestine a way to communicate, then get your act together and come visit! You clearly need a break from the royal rubbish you're having to deal with on a daily basis, anyway. Appoint a regent and take a vacay!

Also, re: marriage/engagement scam - let the record show that I was not keen on deceiving you in London. I didn't know who I was then. Truth be told, I'm still figuring it out. On a related note, I'm sorry that our friendship began on such duplicitous footing. Can we start over?

S

* * *

 _Dear Sabrina,_

 _Coming by trod next Tuesday. But not because I want us to stop writing. Tell Puck that ever since I had the one in our dungeons repaired, my trod is now faster than his._

 _Rhogin_

 _P.S. Hello, I don't believe we've met before. My name is Rhogin and I've just become King of Goblins, a job for which I am not entirely sure I am well-suited but to which I am determined to give my all. I enjoy books, traveling, and meeting new people, especially people who don't mind that I sometimes turn up for meals in a robe and hairy eyebrows. My weapon of choice is the dagger and I have a weakness for artichokes. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance._

* * *

Dear Rhogin,

Re: trod: Tell him yourself. I will not be party to your one-upmanship games!

But I'll let him know you're coming. I'm sure he'll appreciate the heads-up so he can dust off all his war medals to impress you.

Speaking of which, know that either form you come in is equally welcome. When we've been to war and back together, what else is there to hide?

See you soon!

S

P.S. Hello back. My name is Sabrina, Queen of Faerie and officially-married wife of Puck. My ancestors have been the gatekeepers of magic and Everafter history for many centuries, a legacy that I violently rejected to in the beginning and only recently have come to appreciate. My weapon of choice is my fist and I've saved the world twice. I've just died and gone to heaven and come back. I enjoy books, coffee and meeting new people, _especially_ those who turn up for meals in a robe and hairy eyebrows. I look forward to being your friend.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, Rhogin :) I might or might not have lost my heart to him sometime during this story.**

 **This was a fun chapter to write, because the format was so different, being entirely correspondence between R and S. And fun also to use that correspondence alone to show the progression of their friendship from formal and slightly standoffish to something sweet and real, as their walls came down. At least, that was the goal. You guys will have to be the judge to whether I actually achieved it!**

 **Heads-up: the next chapter will indeed be the very last. Simultaneously hooray and sniff.**


	38. Epilogue

15 MONTHS LATER

I dream of Bradley.

It is late afternoon on a crisp fall day in Brooklyn. I walk under bright golden maples down the sloping streets toward the bookstore where I used to work. As I round the corner, I see the familiar chalkboard sign sitting on the sidewalk, announcing the latest book signing event and the specials for the week.

There he is, leaning against a lamppost.

He is as handsome as ever, his dark hair and eyes a sharp contrast to the bright hues of autumn all around him. He smiles when he sees me, his thumb poised over his iPhone screen.

I've missed him.

I've missed him so much that my heart seizes in my chest.

When I reach his side, he takes my hand and weaves his fingers between mine. He doesn't speak as we walk toward our favorite park and find a bench near a small playground. Toddlers in puffy jackets dart up and down the jungle gym while their parents stand nearby, watching them and sipping coffee cups.

For a while, we sit in silence, his arm around me. I bury my face in his corduroy coat and breathe him in.

I smell nothing.

I remember he isn't real.

I remember why I'm here.

"Brad," I say.

He turns to me. "Hmm?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and see, like a slideshow meandering seamlessly through my mind, our life together. With each memory, my heart tightens and my throat sears.

I can't make the words come out. I've thought about how to explain to him if we ever met again - that I'd loved him but I wasn't in love with him - but it was such an inessential distinction after the months we'd spent building _us_. It was beyond analysis; pointless to qualify, as if explaining it would justify the undeservedness of its existence.

"I can't move in with you," I whisper at last. "I've chosen someone else."

He nods. "I know." He doesn't sound surprised.

"I'm sorry." I'm crying now.

He nods again.

"I love you," I say, my throat so painful that my words are ragged.

"Me, too."

"Oh, Brad," I breathe out.

He holds me against him, kissing the top of my head. "Sabrina."

I cry harder.

"Sabrina. I'm not real. Let me go."

I cling to him, the fabric of his coat in my fists, and scream into his body that I can no longer smell. I scream and scream and hear the imaginary words of Marian-who-never-was spouting her mantra, "Anger sits on hurt."

I'm hurting because I've loved a phantom.

And he'd loved me back.

It's surprising how much pain there is even in madness.

Eventually, the knot in my chest loosens. I pull away and look at him.

"Will I see you again?" I ask.

"Probably not."

"Because you'll be busy haunting some other girl's dreams?"

He smiles. "Now there's an idea."

I take his hand in mine. "Is _any_ part of you real?"

He considers. "You need someone who's _all_ real, love. Not just parts. Is your someone like that?"

Oh, the irony. I remember years ago when I'd first laid unbelieving eyes on post-bath Puck without his usual layer of dirt and thought, while careening headlong into my first crush, "He isn't even a real boy!"

And then I realize what I've just heard: _You need someone who's all real, love_.

 _Love._

It's what Puck sighs against my ear, when we are alone, when he sheds the teasing and insults and chooses another kind of name-calling altogether.

My mind spins.

I let it go.

It is not important. Not anymore.

"He's. . . kinda. . . real, yeah," I answer him instead.

"Did you find him while you were out seeing the world?"

"No. Sort of. Actually, _he_ found _me_ , but I'd forgotten."

"So it's a happily ever after, then."

 _Except that I'm saying goodbye to you._

I close my eyes, collecting myself.

"Are we going to say goodbye now?" I speak my mind.

"When you're ready," he says. "I can wait."

"Thank you, Brad. For being there for me when I needed you. You never left. You -"

 _Neither did Puck_. The thought comes, sharp and lucid.

I sit up and take a deep breath. And then another.

"Okay," I say. "I'm ready now."

He turns to me and I hold his face in my mind, framing every piece of _us_ against a backdrop of thankfulness for a life filled with more love than I could ever deserve. I hold it all before me, storing it up for a day when I can no longer bring him back from memory, only what it felt like to have had him for this season.

I lean in to kiss him, fearing for a moment that he might turn his face and offer only his cheek.

But he doesn't. His lips are familiar and gentle. And he does not kiss me - as I am now realizing it - like I'm his.

He kisses me as if I'm not.

He always has.

The thought makes me feel acutely sad - and strangely relieved.

"Goodbye, Bradley."

"Goodbye, Sabrina."

He does not move. I think that maybe I must.

So I stand and walk away, even though they are the hardest and heaviest steps to take, and keep my eyes on his as I leave. He still sits, with his arm on the back of the seat, over the space that was mine. When I can no longer safely walk backward, I turn and set distance between us, looking up at the luminous yellow of the leaves overhead as I blink away scalding tears.

Then I look back at the park bench, but it is empty.

I wake.

My eyes are dry but I'm breathing heavily, my heart thudding as I take in the room around me.

I'm in bed - _my_ bed. I turn and see a head half-buried under white sheets, the pointed tip of an ear just visible among golden curls. I reach out under the covers and pull myself against a warm back.

Puck lifts his arm in his sleep and wraps mine around his waist, the rings on our fingers winking in the early morning sunlight. I lean my cheek against the velvet skin of his shoulder and listen to his breaths hum through his body. I tuck my leg between his calves and hold him.

He is real, as he has always been.

From the next room, I hear a cry.

I lie still, listening - perhaps her waking is only temporary and she'll fall back to sweet unconsciousness so I can, too. But I hear her again, and I sigh, slipping out from the warm cocoon of sheets and padding to her bedroom.

There she is - wriggling and mouthing her fists as she kicks her blankets away from her tiny body, all golden and green-eyed like her father, and just as around-the-clock ravenous.

"Hey, Allie. Let me guess - you're hungry again. It's always about food with you, isn't it?"

A noise from the door makes me look up.

Puck stands there in his boxers, hair sticking out every which way, hunched and hugging himself in the cool morning air.

"Oh, you're here," he mumbles in a voice thick with sleep. "She kept crying so I got up to check. I thought no one heard."

"I've got her," I tell him, my words collapsing into a huge yawn.

He yawns back, not moving from the doorway.

"Babies need snooze buttons," he comments when he once more has control over his mouth. "If we were in Faerie, there'd be scores of servants to tend to her every need, you know. We'd never lose a minute of sleep."

"You can catch up on all the sleep you want over the weekends when we _are_ there, wimp."

"Whatever. What time is it, anyway?" He squints at the nursery clock. "Ungh. It's still yesterday."

"No, it's not. Go back to bed, Stinker. See you when I'm done."

He leaves, muttering about royalty and servants and entitlements.

He's right, though.

We could have been living like kings - literally - instead of wading neck-deep in diapers and suburbia. It isn't as if the thought had never crossed my mind. But when we'd known we were having a baby - over which news all of Faerie did, indeed, rejoice - we'd decided right away that we needed to raise her with one foot in Puck's world, and the other in mine.

Alison had arrived one spring evening - landing safely in the arms of a very emotional Gossamer - and, amidst much pomp and celebration, we'd spent the next few weeks in a flurry of meet-and-greets and photoshoots and parties. Dignitaries I recognized only from the pictures in our wedding album descended in droves to the visiting halls of Faerie, bearing gifts and well-wishes. I'd had my suspicions, though, that some of them, particularly the uppity Fae from the wintry northern kingdom, having been aware of Puck's staunch refusal to grow up, had only come to gawk at his first attempts at fatherhood.

Rhogin had turned up at the end of the first week, causing quite a stir among the dryads who'd been sitting in the gardens. Several of them had promptly fainted at the sight of him, much to his amusement and Puck's disgust (he'd spat at Rhogin under his breath, "Turn it _off_ , you ass; those are _my_ guests!") and had to be taken to the healing rooms and revived with Gossamer's strongest smelling salts. Rhogin had brought with him a hamper of goodies for the new mother (but which Puck had immediately confiscated for himself) and several vials of sleeping draught, to be used "in emergencies when the baby is inconveniently awake and the parents desire not to be".

I'd thrown myself at him and planted a great big kiss on his cheek, not only to pay Puck back for stealing my treats, but also because I'd been so glad to finally see someone I actually remembered from my hijacked past. Rhogin, seemingly immune to the death glares thrown his way - and mine - by the remaining dryads who'd not succumbed to a rapturous coma, had hugged me back, smirking at a seething Puck. For once, I hadn't cared if he were exercising his magnetic influence on me or anyone else - my friend was here and I didn't have to make small talk with him like with all the other people who'd come to see our baby. I'd been beyond ecstatic.

Once we'd found our feet as new parents and Gossamer had declared Allison safe in our care, we'd moved to our new apartment in the city. The first few nights had been a nightmare of crying and diapers and nursing and I'd been tempted to pack up and move right back to Faerie and the veritable army of helpers and nursemaids.

Puck, surprisingly, had been somewhat amazing with Alison, plucking her out of my arms when I'd been at my wits' end, and miraculously lulling her back to sleep. I remember the first time he'd done it - after screaming in my arms for most of the night, she'd instantly dropped off into deep sonorous slumber, cradled against his chest. Worn stupid-tired by sleep deprivation, I'd hissed at him, "Did you just cheat and use _magic_ on our baby?" only to have him easily reply, " She _is_ magic, duh."

I'd burst into tears then, completely wiped out and utterly miserable. Puck had sighed in exasperation and said, "Just this once, let me save you, okay?" Then he'd put Alison back in her crib, scooped me up and carted me off to bed, still bawling my eyes out.

I'd blamed the postpartum hormones from hell.

Unbelievably, the nights did eventually turn into days, and now we're slowly settling into our new normal. Over time, I'm finding myself - as I'd hoped - making new memories.

Puck continues to commute to and from Faerie during the week, working alongside a now fully-recovered Mustardseed, to run their kingdom the way their father had planned, but had never had the chance, to. We spend the weekends, and other random stretches of time there, so the Fae can enjoy their new princess, and we can take a break from the all-consuming occupation of caring for an infant. It is, as Puck likes to say, a total win-win.

At the back of our minds, we know the day will come when she - and any other siblings who might follow - would have to reckon with her dual heritage, and that she might choose one over the other just to make sense of an identity that is at once real, and not. Still, we hope that like Puck and me, she might embrace both, and be all the stronger for it.

But that would be many years - and choices - away yet.

This morning, however, Faerie's crown princess is just a baby with one thing on her mind.

She cries again, begging for attention, so I pick her up and settle into the rocker to feed her. I yawn, and flip open my laptop on the side table, to read the news as she nurses, feeling deep in my bones just how much my body yearns to go back to bed.

Still, I don't roll my eyes and begrudge her the shuteye she's costing me on yet another woozy morning like so many in the past weeks. Perhaps when she's done this without respite for another half a year, or after I've had even more babies and my patience - along with any kindly maternal instinct - has worn dangerously thin, I possibly might find a colorful phrase or two to express my feelings. For now, this little miracle is a precious gift, and a reminder of everything I have lost even as I hold what I have gained.

So I let her jolt me out of sleep over and over again, disoriented and exhausted, but thankful, _so_ thankful - that she's ours, that she's alive, that she's _here_.

And when she cries, urgent as a clarion call, I _savor_ the sound of her voice.

Because while it is means I must drag myself away from all that is warm and comfortable and wonderful, it is also victory, and hope, and promise - as sweet and glorious as the breaking of the new day.

_ Finis _

* * *

 **A/N: What a ride.**

 **It was with both joy and sadness that I updated the status of this story to "complete".**

 **I have had so much fun writing this for you guys. Way back when it was just a bunch of random plotlines in my head, I decided I'd write a story that I myself would like to read someday. It would have to have dragons - because they are my weakness - and snarky banter, and people forgetting who they were, and losing their way, and finding home on many different levels.**

 **I debated for the longest time on whether to label this an AU or not - and you guys can weigh in on this, too - but in the end I decided that just introducing a goblin setting wasn't enough to make it so. I like to think of it as what I wish had happened in place of the First Epilogue in the books. Because, you know, one cannot just introduce a random love interest and then ditch him at the altar, with no explanation of the five missing years in which all this took root.**

 **Speaking of which, this last encounter with Bradley makes me cry every time I re-read it. Which is lame, considering that I wrote it myself, but I am not good with goodbyes, and I always felt that we owed it to Bradley (at least in this story) to let him go with dignity. It's the least we could do for him. Therefore this is, literally, the saddest scene in my whole story. For me, anyway.**

 **So much more we could deconstruct. But that would be taking away from the story itself, and what it could mean to you, if anything at all. I hope you enjoyed it! And we actually did it - yay -updating with a chapter almost every day so you could read the whole adventure from start to finish in a little over a month!**

 **If you'd moseyed over to my profile at some point, you might have read that this story was actually a writing exercise, and my focus was character development over, say, an intricate plot or elaborate world building. I mean, the plot was literally just a "Gosh! I woke up and lost my memory. Who are you again?" which has been done ad nauseam. But in order to get the full impact of the disorientation that brings, we had to write it entirely from S's point of view, and in the present tense, for maximum immediacy and disconnect. And then I had to build a backstory to justify her bizarre behavior, and a context for all the unresolved tension between S+P. Took longer than I'd planned, but was more fun than I'd thought.**

 **So here's where I need your help and feedback: the pacing. Tell me what you thought of that (and anything else you liked or hated about this story, really). The pacing is one of the first things that strikes me about any novel I read. Some novels start off amazing, and build to a stunning climax, and then rush to a really weak ending in the last 3 pages, and leave me like, "What? Where's the rest of the story? There has to be another page, or another 5 chapters, or something! Did the author suddenly lose interest or get slapped with an editorial deadline or need to cook dinner or something? Continue!"**

 **Thanks, guys. It will all help with my future writing, whenever that may be.**

 **And here we must bid adieu. I don't have any stories in my head at the moment, so I don't know if I'll be back anytime soon to write again. It's been so exciting for me to write for you - I'd have done it even without your reviews and enthusiasm, but those have been a gift to me, and I appreciate you all.**

 **~QaS**


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